Well, I've just returned from Maine, where I got 8 inches every single day - of snow, Steve. I forget from year to year how cold winter in Maine can be. But it was delightful and I'm almost sorry to return to my real life.
Speaking of real life, I find my mailbox full with requests to know what a typical reading experience is like for me. How, where and when does all this fun being me take place? I have finally decided to be truthful about my life. I read every night until dawn in my little sanctuary. Like myself, the design of my room is lean and simple. There is a small pile of books, usually 10 or 15 at a time, which make up the only furnishings of my room. I sleep, when I sleep, on two blankets; one to cushion my fragile little body from the tiled floor, the other to keep me warm. But most nights I just lean against the wall, using a small lamp to light the pages, as I balance my ashtray and glass of gin on my flat, well toned midsection. Slightly to my left and a few feet off the floor, there is a shelf which houses the bottle, my Camels and a few knick-knacks from old love affairs (yeah, I'm pretty sentimental that way.) The rest of the empty room is where the rabbits run.
Now for me. My favorite outfit to read in is a pair of my father's old jeans (the kind construction workers wear) and an emerald green sports bra. If I didn't shave my head every morning, my hair would be long, curly and chestnut brown. The last time I wore shoes was at my high school graduation, when I molded them out of an old Cap'n Crunch box and decorated them with glitter. I find that this sparseness of room and self frees up my mind to absorb the most books in the fewest number of hours.
Any further questions?
Noirvember, 2019: Kiss Me Deadly (1955)
5 years ago
