Saturday, September 08, 2012

A mile away


I'm in my apartment with my sister, a view of glass towers. Alex wants to know if a condo needs to be two bedrooms or more – no, this could be a condo, anything could be a condo – a closet could be a condo. Oh, no – a mouse, I see a mouse in the kitchen, ready to crawl under the sink but Alex reaches over and catches it in his hand. It's tiny, smaller than a finger. He holds a small light bulb to the mouse – what should we do with it?

 
No, I say – let's take it outside. A large red dog is waiting at the elevator – did it eat the mouse? No, Alex still has it. The elevator starts to open on the other side, but when we push lobby it closes. I start to wonder if it's really true that you have to release a mouse a mile away, in order for it not to go back in your house, and then when I'm waking up I think about how Sarah Schulman says towards the end of her new book that the lights in the new Frank Gehry building shift, making the building seem like it's alive, just like New York, but a Frank Gehry building on the West Side Highway just makes me think of death.

 

 

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