The conversations I hear through my housemate’s wall are always furiously something; either a mixture of stern assertion or Portuguese mirth.
Maybe all languages foreign to the listener sound animated. Except Russian.
With their innate awareness of the immanence of death, they see all time as practically moot and therefore never hurry.
Turns out there is another posture, easily seen by googling “man holding coffee”… The coffee drinker looks as if he might be clutching a weapon of some kind: like Gandalf clutches his staff, or Princess Leia grips her blaster. This is coffee as a source of power, of dominance, and of energy. This is literally “grabbing a coffee”. The mug (with its pistol-like grip) and the to-go cup (wielded like a sword) are perfect for this posture, and seem to mean “this coffee gives me power and energy for the dragons I am about to slay later today”.
I feel like the time I live in is over populated by people and things.
Cigarette packets come printed with images of cut open, tracheotomised throats of cancer victims and the ominously clichéd picture of a morgue body’s foot, tagged so you know it isn’t someone just taking a nap under that sheet.
When I sit on the low brick wall out the front of the house, Peter Raimondo’s house, my landlord’s house, the property of a man I may and probably will never meet for the impersonal real estate information ferrying mechanism which makes the act of investment and ownership and the necessary coercions demanded of determining the terms by which another pays for shelter *breath* palatable to the born Australian with money, when I sit on that low brick wall out the front, to have a cigarette, the necessary mechanism for my breathing in the night air, my baby step into the serenity of present being, letting the night air move over my back and my neck and basking in the street light that hits my forehead from 5 degree to the left of the direction I face over the intersection I live at the corner of, purple and mostly white in its unmoving, unpulsing, in this moment unpulsing but over the course of a slower watch of many day and night cycles appearing quite clearly to oscillate, as I sit here smoking and relaxing in the evening while planes fly overhead and my housemates sit in their bedrooms only emerging to eat or work or talk in the necessary mechanical wordforms required to communicate the information essential to our co-ordinating digital money transfers and hygiene-preserving, household labour tasks, otherwise watching foreign sports games streamed over the internet or playing digital sports games streamed over internet or reading or sleeping, sometimes with their windows open, sometimes not, with me out here, out the front of the house, sometimes wondering whether they can smell the cigarette smoke float in through their windows or whether the smoke just drifts star-ward in its skeins and coils, waiting to be wrapped in my tobacco prayers for restful thoughts, when I sit out the front of the house… and hear the rattle of a plastic container blowing along the recently resealed, now smooth and pitch black tar road that a Subaru hatch operated by one man in a basketball cap playing East coast hip-pop drives along…
When I sit out the front of the house, I know why I sit out the front of my house.
Because even all of this feels like quiet, when it spills into my mind, in the time it takes a dart to burn through.
I know why my mother does this every night.
I’m not sure when I became this person.
I did not cross an adult threshold. There is none.
I just lived long enough to have that amount of information that drove her to meditative smoking, twenty years faster than she.