SoCal shut-in
My roommate stuck a Post-it note to our back slider: DON’T LOCK I LEFT KEY AT MEGS.
Locking doors isn’t his thing. Often I’ll come back from campus to find him gone (a rarity since he works from home) but the heavy glass slider that opens to our slab patio wide open. Only the wooden gate, easily opened by the pull of a shoestring attached to the inside latch, and the flimsy screen are keeping our apartment safe from burglars. When he runs — once in a blue moon — he leaves the front door unlocked because he doesn’t take his key. On more than one occasion I’ve returned to find the front screen, front door, back slider, and back screen all open. Needless to say, I’m afraid I’ll come home some day to find my computer missing.
It’s not that he doesn’t think we need to lock the apartment, it’s because he’s too absent minded to do it. I’m not sure it even crosses his mind. A talk is long overdue, and I know the perfect story to tell.
Anyway, he’s gone and doesn’t have his key, so like hell I’m going to leave the apartment open and unguarded. Staying at home isn’t what I want to do on this gorgeous Southern California day, but it is a nice respite.
SoCal has had a strange affect on how I spend my free time. Every weekend I feel an obligation to get out, go somewhere, do something, even if it's just riding my bike to the beach. I can’t waste the sunshine, can’t waste the location, can’t waste the opportunity. Sitting at home — reading, writing, watching the boob tube (that catatonic state), catching up on sleep — isn’t an option, at least for the entire day. I have to be busy, have to be active.
In Iowa I felt differently. The weekend was a two day lull from work and classes, a time to be lazy and unproductive. I lounged around my parent’s house. I slept in, read on the patio beneath the deck, watched traffic on First Avenue, wrote, listened to music, and napped in my blue chair. It was extremely relaxing, especially during the spring and fall. Nothing can compare to the spring and fall in the Midwest. Nothing. It’s not hot and not cold. You can open the windows and the sounds of the outside world — the call of birds and insects, the rustling of foliage in the breeze, the calm of nature — float into your room. It’s so soothing.
It’s another story in the big city, though. No crickets or locust, there aren’t many birds except big crows, and the only thing rustling in the breeze are the cheap vertical blinds. (I fucking hate it when the plastic strips clatter together from a draft. The only way you can stop it is to close the window or fold all the slats to one side of the track.) Perhaps it’s the concrete and closeness that makes me want to flee, to seek nature and peace. My proximity to the ocean and beach makes the feeling more acute.
But today I have to suffer though it. I have to do my Iowa thing here in SoCal, only there’s no patio beneath the deck, no blue chair, no green foliage, and no spring or fall.
I hope my roommate gets his key soon. I need to get out of here.
Locking doors isn’t his thing. Often I’ll come back from campus to find him gone (a rarity since he works from home) but the heavy glass slider that opens to our slab patio wide open. Only the wooden gate, easily opened by the pull of a shoestring attached to the inside latch, and the flimsy screen are keeping our apartment safe from burglars. When he runs — once in a blue moon — he leaves the front door unlocked because he doesn’t take his key. On more than one occasion I’ve returned to find the front screen, front door, back slider, and back screen all open. Needless to say, I’m afraid I’ll come home some day to find my computer missing.
It’s not that he doesn’t think we need to lock the apartment, it’s because he’s too absent minded to do it. I’m not sure it even crosses his mind. A talk is long overdue, and I know the perfect story to tell.
Anyway, he’s gone and doesn’t have his key, so like hell I’m going to leave the apartment open and unguarded. Staying at home isn’t what I want to do on this gorgeous Southern California day, but it is a nice respite.
SoCal has had a strange affect on how I spend my free time. Every weekend I feel an obligation to get out, go somewhere, do something, even if it's just riding my bike to the beach. I can’t waste the sunshine, can’t waste the location, can’t waste the opportunity. Sitting at home — reading, writing, watching the boob tube (that catatonic state), catching up on sleep — isn’t an option, at least for the entire day. I have to be busy, have to be active.
In Iowa I felt differently. The weekend was a two day lull from work and classes, a time to be lazy and unproductive. I lounged around my parent’s house. I slept in, read on the patio beneath the deck, watched traffic on First Avenue, wrote, listened to music, and napped in my blue chair. It was extremely relaxing, especially during the spring and fall. Nothing can compare to the spring and fall in the Midwest. Nothing. It’s not hot and not cold. You can open the windows and the sounds of the outside world — the call of birds and insects, the rustling of foliage in the breeze, the calm of nature — float into your room. It’s so soothing.
It’s another story in the big city, though. No crickets or locust, there aren’t many birds except big crows, and the only thing rustling in the breeze are the cheap vertical blinds. (I fucking hate it when the plastic strips clatter together from a draft. The only way you can stop it is to close the window or fold all the slats to one side of the track.) Perhaps it’s the concrete and closeness that makes me want to flee, to seek nature and peace. My proximity to the ocean and beach makes the feeling more acute.
But today I have to suffer though it. I have to do my Iowa thing here in SoCal, only there’s no patio beneath the deck, no blue chair, no green foliage, and no spring or fall.
I hope my roommate gets his key soon. I need to get out of here.
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