RAM: The Open Book

I walk into my kitchen. Teatime. The water boils on the stove in the kettle. The steam rises, dissipates, disappears. In essence, a visual symbol of life in my mind. The light plays through the vapor, coming through the window in streams. Intense light and heat baking anything in its path. I go to the sink to rinse off my hands. My hands are tan. My long sleeved shirt is white, the sleeves are each rolled twice. The soap suds in the sink envelope my skin and reflect little blue rainbows of light off of each round bubble. I pour the water into the cup over the Earl Grey teabag. The water changes from clear to clear brown in swirls of unending caffeine. I move my chair so that it faces the window, so that the sun shines directly onto my face, warming me, regenerating me, passing its life into me.

Private. No Parking. A red apron hangs over the railing as if the bus boy had just committed suicide. Jumping over the edge. Inside it is hazy but the smoke does not bother me. Today, anyway. Sitting at the marble topped table, drinking my caffe latte in a paper cup. Paper cups these days, not styrofoam. The cafe is all out of glass. The bus boy just committed suicide. I have sprinkled chocolate on my coffee. It gives it an exotic flavor. The cafe walls are made from red brick with wooden beams across the ceiling. There is a low din of conversation. Not too loud, but indecypherable. Like the whispers of an alien language in the middle of the night. I am surround by menboys who are either by themselves staring out the window, or paired off with another manboy friend and contributing to the din. There is a skylight diffusing light from outside. The light is envelopping all within the room, softly. The sky is grey. It might rain today, they say. I love the grey sky in Berkeley. I think the sky should always be grey here.

Two ladders stand against the wall. A wall with no windows. The ladders only go a quarter of the way up the building. One is shorter than the other. I could climb one of those ladders. But what sense does that make? A chair sits beside the ladders. But underneath the chair, on the pavement, is painted No Parking.

Another sign says Private Parking. Don’t look. But there is nothing there because I can’t resist looking. Birds fly overhead. Through the grey sky. Past the building tops. Roof tops. Tops of plam trees. The tops of buildings seem to be at peace. Somehow they do not reflect the action on the street.

I sit in cafes for hours at a time and watch the interaction of a man and his coffee. His struggle to make that one cup last the whole afternoon. His struggle to not look too obvious. His need to be comfrotable in a public place while his insecurity is written all over his face.

I watch a young woman and her cigarette. I watch the smoke curl out of her mouth and disappear into that which I cannot see, even though my sense of smell tells that the smoke is still around me and her.

I watch her watching the man. I watch her in my invisibility. Always that sense of being invisible. Like smoke. No one sees me although they sense my presence. Never knowing why people ignore me. Is it me? Or their insecurity? Always, I have felt this way.