Walls

I cannot figure out what I want to remember, but I know that I am not remembering enough. If I knew what it was that I wanted to remember then I would most certainly not be in this predicament. Here I am, kneeling into some dust and crumbs that have been pushed towards the bookshelf in order to avoid collecting food and dirt particles on the bottom of my moist feet, and I am thinking that the answer is amongst the rows of multi-colored, crooked teeth staring back at me.

My neighbor is apparently boiling water, possibly for tea or hot chocolate. Why has this neighbor of mine yet to remove the kettle from the shove? When I moved in I had no idea the walls were so thin. I do not recall any consideration of any sort concerning the walls. Of course when the owner first showed me my perfect little box on the 5th floor of 140 East 98th Street, I truly only remember my exhausted body from a 14 hour day of chasing three little girls around and the realization that I could fit two bookcases along the wall. My father, of course, who is far more practical than his daughter, examined the walls right after noticing the lack of lighting in the space.

“The walls,” he raised his two fingers to the wall and knocked twice, “seem pretty sturdy.” He walked to a few different places in the room and knocked once or twice.

“Solid. It’s an old building. Pre-war. Concrete walls,” said the owner whose most remarkable quality was his hair’s ability to hold more hair gel than I had ever seen in a head of hair. I never notice things of that nature, but I was, and still am, confused by the overabundance of hair gel. There were globs of it holding together multiple strands of dark hair speckled with a few grey roots.

What is it about the walls of my apartment? I feel like I know everything about my neighbors. They definitely have one young child and both parents work. They go to work around 7:45am each day leaving their child with a very sweet older woman whose accent convinces me that she was probably not raised in the United States.

Lexington Avenue and 98^th Street is noisy at night: a lot of trucks. I have never looked outside late at night to see what the noise is.

I swear I hear the fucking kettle again. I raise my arm above and behind my head and hit my knuckles against the wall twice. Solid? Certainly not solid enough.

Because Maybe Dead Writers Have Internet Access

Dear Hemingway, 

Our short-lived love affair has possibly run its course. You're an asshole and I'm so over you. 

Good luck in the future. 

Best Regards. 

Thank You KM

I am not quite sure of exactly what I am afraid of. I believe it's difficult to pin down because it's more of a concept than a physical entity. Sometimes it makes me cry, but more often than not, it makes me remove myself from the world because I don't want others to know I feel this way. And the absurd part is that I have no idea what feeling "this way" means exactly. I do know what I like, however. I like words and how they are strung together. I like structure that moves beyond individual words and their connections to their layers and foundation that they build to eventually come to be some beautiful structure-- beautiful in its strength. My thoughts are too jumbled right now and although I would love to place them on this page (or in this virtual place-- I'm still in the dark ages and quite confused by modern technology), I have to go run down Lexington Avenue as quickly as I possibly can in order to calm my brain and organize my thoughts. Before I walk away I do have to thank this lovely someone who inspired me to do this. You may not know it, but you challenge me and impress me and teach me so much about the world without even trying. Thank you.