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Beautiful Angels

I travel. I travel constantly. I travel five days a week for business, I travel weekends for pleasure. My home is an array of hotels, Hiltons, Holiday Inns or whatever William Shatner hooks me up with. My transportation consists of economy rental cars and cramped airplanes. My friends work at these airlines, hotels and rental companies. My office is any place with accessible electricity and Wi-Fi. My pride is completed tasks, on time arrivals, airline statuses and successful wake up calls.

The last thing I want to do when I return home after three consecutive weeks of travel,( After three weeks of work in Boston, Massachusetts, Mobile, Alabama and Jacksonville, Florida and two weeks with the girlfriend somewhere deep in Montana.) is clean! When I first open the door to my apartment, I unleash the long imprisoned contents of my suitcase and watch as it springs itself free only to rest upon the floors, counters, couch, bathrooms and anywhere else it may land. My rarely used silverware, used once again, though not put away. Dirty forks, dirty dishes and used napkins find themselves spread all across my kitchen and dining room. My bed becomes unmade from use.

I will leave again on Monday. Friday through Sunday I am in a rush to do a million things while I am still in my town. I have friends to see. I have bills to pay. I have a car to upkeep. I have haircuts to get. I have clothes to launder. I have a bike to ride. I have books to read. I have beer to drink! I have a house to clean. Though, in all honesty the latter seems to never be accomplished, at least by me.

I have hired a cleaning company and respect no job more than the job they do for me. The beautiful woman who comes and cleans my house is an angel. (I only assume she is beautiful, I only assume she is an angel, because no one would do that task without being both!) I destroy my apartment. I find a clean place, a wonderful area in a wonderful neighborhood and think for no rational reason; it is a great idea to drop a tiny nuclear bomb right in its middle. There is an incredible mess, there is radiation! And when they come to my apartment, without masks or complaints, its floors become sterilized and my mind released from the stress of another task.

This is a great luxury I have become accustomed to. One of the last I would give up in an ultimate crisis, which it would have to be for me to consider it. I have great respect for these women and those men doing the task, I flat out refuse to do! I was raised by a woman who did the same task. She did this same task long before she way paid for it, back when my baby, toddler and teenager self was dropping tiny nuclear bombs all over her house! She cleaned it, without masks and without complaints. Then she did the same again, to our own house and to others. With the small profits coming in from her selfless venture, she gave my siblings and me a wonderful education. She is a real woman of sacrifice and is to be admired.

With this sacrifice and pure determination, which started long before dollars were ever introduced, she started a business. With this business she is still doing selfless acts of incredible kindness as she has done her whole life and will continue to do.

 What I am saying, what I am getting at, is when these women and men (beautiful angels) walk into your home, know what they are capable of, know what they may have done. You don’t have to behave any different than you are now, just know.

 

What’s Outside the Window?

“What is outside the window?.” A question posed by Roberto Bolano to myself last night. Oh boy, you inconsiderate bastard, I thought. He had left me no answer. As I paced around my hotel room, absolutely perplexed, my mind was moving. What did he mean, what does it mean? This man has kept my attention for six hundred and forty six pages and as I turned number six hundred and forty seven and read that last line, Roberto still had me.

I tried to understand what he meant, where he was going. What was this genius of words trying to say with a picture. A square with dashes for lines, the same you would assume is telling you to cut here, to carefully create a perfect shape into the last page of a perfect book. It must be something grand. I just hoped to be smart enough to know.

I decided to focus on what it meant to me, it’s not like I could go ask the guy, I am sure he is buried in South America somewhere, a shrine I hope. The only answer I had, was no answer at all. It was a riddle, I knew that much.

What is outside the window? Was it prison bars? What is outside the window? Was it longitudes and latitudes? What is outside the window? As I stared in, I wondered is it me? I knew one thing for sure, I don’t know.

That final thought repeating in my head, I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s what he intended for me to think. I found it perfect anyway.

No one knows what’s outside the window or outside of anything for that matter. You must get up, get out of that couch, stop staring at that god-damned window called a television. Get up, get out. Go find out for yourself. You need to, you must stop staring and wondering.

Yes, the safety of whatever enclosure you might find yourself in is most certainly comforting. Yes, those walls keep you free from getting hurt, free from falling and free from breathing the city’s toxic air. They are also depressing. That room is also, exactly what is, enclosed. It is enclosing quickly on your life, on your soul.

Go, quick, find some danger, find some love, get hurt, get going!

If you are staring out right now, wondering, what is outside the window? Good. Go out that door, the door of your office building, the door of your home, apartment or loft, the door of your heart, the door of your mind, the door of your soul and find out.

Hurry, your breath is fogging the glass and winter is coming.

Outside a window in Montana

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