They’re on vacation–the people I am renting a basement from. They are gone, and I am here left to keep their cat company, just in case. Sometimes I feel as though he’s keeping an eye on me. Utah, hot–summer–dry–and–green leaves trying to survive under the microscopic effect we have created with pollutants and evaporated water. Poor precious water.
I came up to the kitchen from my dungeon to work by the light, but the sun is making me smile and daydream about a childhood I could have had if I’d have been born into a different family, into a different flesh, into a different reality. But would I be happy? I don’t know.
This is my partial living space. Utahns might say, “This be your partial living space.” Temporary touching upon the ground of Sugar House and watching as they see me walk up the partial stairs, asking: Who is that? Why is she here? Is she moving in? Where does she come from? And all I want to ask is, Can I borrow your guitar? I left mine at home and I miss singing.
I am part here, I am part Perú, and I am part California. I am whole nowhere as of now, and this heat makes it hard to focus. Time to eat my leftover BBQ ribs.