soho

i have a wonderful new picture in my bedroom. it's called 'friday night in soho' by michael bishop. it looks much more beautiful in person, than in the picture. i had never seen it before, when i walked into the store, and i had two other prints i was considering. then a wonderful quote, which for some reason i'm attatched to "there's no grass in soho" replayed in my mind. the man's voice who said it is raw and sensual, now i always hear it when i look at the picture. it is just magnificent, the colours are so vibrant and alive. i feel like im in the city. however, i am not. i'm stuck in this house, the noise and yelling only escalating. young children being rude beyond their years. beyond his years. i want the screaming to stop. i want the yelling and whining and selfishness to stop.

my only escape is my bedroom, where my lovely new picture hangs. is there any doubt as to why i'm so attatched to it? none in my mind. analysing it, it's because i want to escape. i feel myself, and happy, and calm in my bedroom. nobody else gets to control it, it's just mine. it's just how i like it. but ... i can hear the noise. i can hear everything, no matter where i am in the house. sometimes, i wake up in the night, with my earplugs in, and can hear snoring, or arguing. i really have to peace. and as physical space goes, my bedroom suffices, but emotional and noise-wise. i have nothing to myself.

i have also become lost in my writing, i have dreamed up characters, so beautifully connected and just a little off, in their own way. most of my day is thinking about them, this other spledid world i have created. it's not all good, that would be boring, but i'd much prefer to live there. or even fifty years ago. how cynical i have become.