room

I've seen a movie called "The Room" which was really quite painful to see and now to think of again.

The book I just read, called "Room" by Emma Donoghue, conjured up a similar type of emotional reaction, though it wasn't from comical incompetence the way the former did. I'm feeling the sense of overwhelmed hypocrisy represented by the narration of the 5 year old boy in the story, Jack, and finding myself paranoid about small spaces, even not wanting to get in the car with my dog. I'm glad to have read the story, but I'm glad it's over.

Also, lightning is attacking New Orleans tonight, which is creating a wonderfully rainy breeze. The swamplands are soaking it up, and so are my peppers. I'm delighted by the wet aesthetics of my view- the shiny leaves and healthy soil, and a shabby layer of cracking paint on the balcony that seems put there to remind me that this house is not my own.

So I have this messy house which is a perfect sanctuary from the wind and rain, complete with a strangely comforting soundtrack of videogame noises from the other room and dreamy whelps from my sleeping dog. Aside from the sneaking suspicion that my laundry isn't bustling away sorting and washing itself, and the subconscious fear of an unseen divide from my family and home, it's all just a slow midnight drift off into night wondering, where I suspect I'll imagine myself in a confined space.