|
2001-12-11 || 4:58 p.m. || romancing the thermostat || the heater doesn't work. i light the pilot and fiddle with the thermostat and hear a metal rumble. heat fills up the apartment: ghosts of burnt toast and waffles, flammable pajamas, singed eyebrows. they dance around, teeter totter, jerk about as if strung up with thread, and fall to the floor with the faintest trace of crumbs and lint. the orange lines in the thermostat meet and the rumble spits and sighs and stops. i have taken to lying like a cat with the heat on. the sleeping bag is out and i am lounging around and reading and my eyelids get heavy and it is so warm i can take my socks of, walk around sweater-less if i want to. warm warm warm and then slowly it escapes out the spaces under doors and the cracks in the weatherstripping and through the pores of glass panes and dry wall. stale ghosts and drafts and the orange lines of the thermostat have drifted apart, aren't speaking. but the heater is old and doesn't remember it's his job as matchmaker, mood setter, household appliance to bring the lines together again. it falls asleep and i try to kick him awake in the morning, try to draw attention to the quarreling orange lines (one on 53, one on 67), but it won't wake up. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |