Maurice Henry
I have always taken pride in my ability to sleep comfortably in the heat.
Growing up, we had no AC and only one fan, some old thing from the early eighties, which moved around with us around the apartment and was quite loud. It had beautiful, dark blue wings.
Because of this, I'm not too fond of air conditioning. I especially avoid sleeping in it because I wake up with a cold every time I do. My body can never get used to it, and something about it feels suffocating. Worse than the heat even.
I’ll just take a cold bath, thanks.
One summer in Omaha, I went home with some idiot who drove a Lexus. He was a terrible kisser, but worse; he had an AC unit in the window next to his bed. I shivered through a half-hearted blowjob and woke up with a sinus infection.
Sitting in my packed-up room.
Hoping for the best.
I’m hosting a writing workshop this month, which is strange, especially given my skepticism and doubts regarding them. But it’s new, and more importantly, it seems like a good use of my time.
Talking about poetry, writing about being on fire.
That’s largely what I’m concerned with lately.
Time. And how I spend it.
And love, of course, but little loves: toasted tomato sandwiches, strawberry season, a new space soon.
I keep telling myself that my move is symbolic, that I can leave things behind, that I only ever knew him here and not there, that There I will be cleansed of This.
Only just maybe.
The other day I started writing about reality tv and its specific appeal to wealthy people, how often those with money survive their guilt by finding worse money, and Tackier Targets to point to within that realm. This relief is necessary for them to rationalize their own privilege, their own “luck.”
I’m interested in how these people find cultural copes and would like to hear from people. If anyone has any thoughts, you can share them in the chat or e-mail me by responding to this post. Feel free to use either option to suggest topics or send me stuff to read; I always love hearing from people.
Sorry.
Sometimes all I have are fragments.
I mean, everything is in boxes.
I’ll be back next week after my move.
xoxo
Realism Confidence is a reader-supported publication. If you’d like to support my writing (or help me go to the dentist), please consider becoming a paid subscriber.
I also have a new collection of poetry available digitally for those interested.