19 01 2008

In our summer cottage, my butter-yellow bedroom was at the top of the steep stairs. With the door open, anyone heading up to the bathroom or to their rooms had access to its contents, yet closing the door meant a dark climb. And so every morning my door would be fastened open with hook and eye. That meant I had to keep it clean, spartan even, treasures stashed. My brothers had corner rooms, private and messy. One brother’s was even painted a deep-sea blue except for along the eaves’ sweep where huge maritime maps charted the depths of coastal waters.



One response

27 08 2008
The Contextual Process: Cinquecento, Painted Toenails and Tagging Lessons « (the new) bgblogging

[…] I was a kid, my mother made me clean my room. College roommates had to put up with my “system” of un-organization. My family is used […]

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