El hogarcito and other unbearable things

Eight o’clock isn’t so bad. It’s the jarring discordancy of the alarm at six; bleeping intrusively into a down-laden world called Six-O-Seven; horrifyingly insistent at fourteen-past that IT is right and I am wrong; until, at twenty-one past, I am driven to muttering good-morning curses. When I hear the traffic piling up ten flights below, the gravity of the situation settles heavily on my shoulders. The morning has again become a reality. It’s the six-o’clock-hour that makes me feel downtrodden and weary, a the beast of unintelligent burdens. But [apart from Mondays] things shape up by eight.

Generally, when my day begins at eight, I can look forward to lengthy gaps in between classes. And what do I do with that time? Or, occassionally, I’ll finish classes around ten or eleven in the morning. And then what? The temptation to go home always taunts. It’s boring, but it’s more acceptable than wandering around the streets all day. But…why?

Stalling in the middle of an unexpected five-hour gap today, and not wanting to waste a beautiful day in the confines of a psuedo-beautiful apartment, I opted for the literary café. It’s really just a library, with books that are quite easily accessible (I’ve been to libraries where this isn’t the case). And I found a book that I’ve been persuaded to read and embarked on the impossible voyage that, for me, is: Reading A Book.

They were a brilliant first fourteen pages of a book. [La insoportable levedad del ser, or The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera]

When my desire to stay on with my current employer finally, gently, nudged me towards home to collect my things and salir newly… I got to thinking about the restrictiveness of this idea of home. Certainly home incorporates several different ideas—some strictly following the architectural blueprints, others giving priority to heartstrings, and others permitting a fair bit of vagabondage. But my idea of home is usually along the architectural lines.

And how boring is that? There’s no better way to restrict myself than to encage myself in a small studio—ten stories above the bagpiper, the ultra-important business suits, the casual luncheoners—safely away from contact with Strangers. How extremely fome of me. That is a bad bad habit.

…

And because that … blessed … alarm clock is going to ring in the new day with joy and gladness in not very many hours, I will have to collect my thoughts some more and finish them later. Maybe I can put them in a nice flow chart. A nice power point whoop de doo presentation. Something very neat and tidy. That’ll be nice.


mira, no es que quiero ser vagabunda
oye, no es que soy ingrata
pero este hogarcito mio me parece un poquito fome
un poquito solitario
y un poquito más escondido del mundo que lo que sea necesario