Sunday, January 11, 2009

More textures, underwater

The best part of the movie is sitting in the bathroom and staring at the stall walls, the shadow of the recessed lighting shining down, what’s the difference between brushed steel and stainless steel? And my pink-orange coat, the contrasting texture between weave and the way the threads twist at places, is that called worsted, worsted wool? There must be a better word for pink-orange, especially when illuminated by recessed lighting against steel. I turn around and see green paint dripping onto the holder for toilet seat covers, also stainless steel, another name. Of course the paint is no longer dripping but left to drip still dripping in the texture and lines. Back at the mirror, oh no there’s this one angle where my face looks so square and harsh it’s everything that I’m fleeing, I guess there was a lot in the movie about aging, that place in the mid-30s where now I’m wondering in the mirror.

In the lobby, I’m studying more textures: the walls beyond stucco, a similar green, a sign on the water fountain, also stainless steel or brushed steel or brushed stainless steel, it says: recycle plastic cups in black receptacle beneath the water fountain. But the receptacle is grey. I look back at the sign, notice that black is actually crossed off. I think this new satiny steel goes with the renovation, but the carpet, a loud movie theater lobby pattern that you can’t forget or remember and it’s stained everywhere, I mean everywhere. I look up to see if the guy working is hot, full beard, worn out or maybe it’s just the lighting and I’m tired again. Maybe I was tired the whole time, depression I guess the way I feel like I’m underwater or underground no underground sounds too glamorous. How sex is rarely the answer but it always might be, that’s what I thought when I left the house.

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