ephemera

da silva hates me.
he waits until my light goes out and then he starts moving around in his room.
and then he starts playing his weird experimental music, which sounds like a badly tuned radio put through a series of compressors.
and then he goes to the communal kitchen, which is on my right, and he cooks a six course meal and meticulously does the washing up, all the while scurrying back and forth to his room, which is on my left, as he ferries the pots and pans and kitchen implements which he needs to the kitchen and back. all night he cooks and eats and then washes up and plays his weird music.
and then. if he thinks i might like to have a nap in the afternoon to rest my weary jet-lagged body, he starts putting up shelves on the other side of the wall we share, and he drills and hammers until i give up and get up and go out.
i want to wake up in the city that never sleeps, but i wish i could go to sleep in it too.

new york city
fall 2006