7:36 p.m. - October 07, 2002
I need a Chinese New Year's parade to wake me up and scare off the goblins
There is no breeze coming through the window but I hear cricket music and periodic collisions between flying creatures and the screen close to where I work. All the lights are off and down the hall the dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer hum; across the room from me the stereo plays and it is loud enough to carry through the back yard.
The candle flickers and I rub my feet together.
I have this big house that's dead silent unless I create noise. I have bookcases from floor to ceiling overflowing with books. I have five bedrooms, three baths, sunny hallways and big windows. I have a view of the hills slowly turning green for the winter. I wake up and there are birds in the back and the plants I've tended are doing well. And I don't let anybody visit. The mail carrier is more intimate with my house than my closest friends. My sister drops in but I haven't seen her since she began her new position, keepings books for a large non-profit and doing something noble. I want people nearby and to hear toilets flushing wooden floors creaking television and stereo competing for attention, the hustle and cacophany of a living abode.
I can't wait for people to break down the doors and carry me off. I have to welcome myself and everybody else; the doorknob is tiny and the door huge, and I feel like a toddler.
