WED. 3 AUG 2011 10:30 a.m. THE KITCHEN
touch: Cool pressure of the tabletop on my bare left forearm; slightly damp, puffy texture of the page beneath my right hand as I write: sketchbook swollen with entries. Light pressure of the circular arc of the table’s edge on my diaphragm. My weight on the kitchen chair, feet lying inert in my slippers.
taste: Faint residual thickness of the blueberry-blackberry cocktail I drank a few minutes ago.
smell: A neutral, barely perceptible quality of indoor air, paper, cotton of my T-shirt.
sound: Continuous breathy hum of the refrigerator. The rumbling growl of accelerating cars, a vibration of bass in the sound. Faster swish of a car already at speed, zooming by outside. Single short creaks from the pine wood of my Ikea chair as I shift. The rub of my hand as it moves in little jerks on the page, the pen squiggling jerkily as well.
sight: The yellow-tan hues of the aged pine of the table, smudgy dark knots scattered on it like negative images of galaxies. The cream page below me, my arm wrapped along its top to steady the notebook. Papers dispersed to the perimeter of the table: a little square slip with grocery ingredients in pink ink; a double set of brochures from the passport office; a yellow carbon copy of a work order from the company that checks our fire-safety equipment; a letter from our insurance broker; a payment receipt from my chiropractor; 2 sections of The North Shore News. There’s a heavy clay fruitbowl of olive-green with 2 clay birds perched on its rim looking in. Inside it: a red apple and a Ziploc bag containing about 10 winegums. A stein of water, my eyeglasses, the rumpled plastic bag in which I keep the sketchbook; 3 more chairs around the table; the mauve wall.