I once again find myself the occupant of an army-style cot. This time last year, I also slept my winter months in Calgary on a nearly identical piece of furniture. I should probably try to escape this fate soon, except soon it will be all but cots throughout the summer. When I lay motionless and attentive, the cot, with its seismographic attributes, picks up the the motions of the blood in my body and steadily oscillates. I tried to make it stop once. It can't be stopped. I am alive.
I also find myself asleep on this cot not in any room of the house, but the master bedroom of the house. The great PURPLE master bedroom, with old forest-green carpet, which I'm sure is the culprit for my allergic mornings. Adrift on this sea of green, I sometimes call out to the corners, just to hear my name echo and reverberate in the distance. This provides me no small comfort. I am not alone, if my name comes calling back at me. I can stroll my own room, in fact. A man living out of bags alone in this wasteland of grape-flavoured walls and a marsh of a floor. I found one piece of furniture down the street. Aside from my paintings and drawings, it's the best I could do to garnish the room. It's an old black dresser. Well, it was black. Sort of. It was chipped and bleeding black when I got it. I found the can of grape in a closet and adjusted the dresser a bit. "Someone was trying to be Jackson Pollock." Katie mused. "Urm, yeah. Well I had a small painting accident... What's a man to do without a brush?" I offer.
The bottom layer of my cot, the sleeping sheet, is covered with cartoon trains, I believe called Thomas. With this in mind, I slumber every night with a gentle rocking, and a metronome of clickity-clacking so I might keep time in my sleep, keep time with the railroad ties. Incidentally, there are no trains in Newfoundland. It's a bit of a story, because there were trains, but not since this place became part of Canada. I do what I can to conjure that old-gauge steamer back into this land. People do not realize that the key to redemption is the same now as it was one hundred years ago; that is, we're short on trains, stuck in perdition.
It's snowing again. To welcome Spring, Newfoundland waits until her coat is shed, with painstaking measures of sunlight, and then puts the hair back on the dog. Yes, we are back to being a hairy dog. Maybe even a very hairy dog. I've heard unofficial broadcasts calling for forty centimeters. I've also heard unofficial broadcasts calling for the new Florida (Nova Flor?) in ten years. I'm willing to wait for both.
I also find myself asleep on this cot not in any room of the house, but the master bedroom of the house. The great PURPLE master bedroom, with old forest-green carpet, which I'm sure is the culprit for my allergic mornings. Adrift on this sea of green, I sometimes call out to the corners, just to hear my name echo and reverberate in the distance. This provides me no small comfort. I am not alone, if my name comes calling back at me. I can stroll my own room, in fact. A man living out of bags alone in this wasteland of grape-flavoured walls and a marsh of a floor. I found one piece of furniture down the street. Aside from my paintings and drawings, it's the best I could do to garnish the room. It's an old black dresser. Well, it was black. Sort of. It was chipped and bleeding black when I got it. I found the can of grape in a closet and adjusted the dresser a bit. "Someone was trying to be Jackson Pollock." Katie mused. "Urm, yeah. Well I had a small painting accident... What's a man to do without a brush?" I offer.
The bottom layer of my cot, the sleeping sheet, is covered with cartoon trains, I believe called Thomas. With this in mind, I slumber every night with a gentle rocking, and a metronome of clickity-clacking so I might keep time in my sleep, keep time with the railroad ties. Incidentally, there are no trains in Newfoundland. It's a bit of a story, because there were trains, but not since this place became part of Canada. I do what I can to conjure that old-gauge steamer back into this land. People do not realize that the key to redemption is the same now as it was one hundred years ago; that is, we're short on trains, stuck in perdition.
It's snowing again. To welcome Spring, Newfoundland waits until her coat is shed, with painstaking measures of sunlight, and then puts the hair back on the dog. Yes, we are back to being a hairy dog. Maybe even a very hairy dog. I've heard unofficial broadcasts calling for forty centimeters. I've also heard unofficial broadcasts calling for the new Florida (Nova Flor?) in ten years. I'm willing to wait for both.
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