Somehow, I don’t know how, I find myself housesitting for Amanda Palmer.
I can’t tell if we’re in NYC or Boston, but the view from the second floor apartment is incredible. The walls are purple and in the fading light it almost feels like I’m underwater. A pug scampers in and out of the kitchen, where most of the action happens. When I first step in, I’m confused. I’m suddenly too tall for the room and the ceiling, well …
© Kevin Botto
It looks a lot like this. I duck, then I realize the cutouts are just the right size to fit a person’s head. There’s minimal furniture – a fridge, a chair in the corner, an end table. Molly Crabapple is there, brewing coffee and swearing when the percolator spits at her. I look in the fridge and find the two soggy tacos I made the night before. Mark of RENT fame straightens his scarf and announces he’s on his way out, and I ask if I’ll be able to take a cab to Columbus. I get some funny looks and decide it’s best to stay put or prepare to do a lot of walking.
I’m alone now. I sit in the corner against a potted palm, mulling over what I brought to read, trying to plot what to write in my journal. Neil Gaiman arrives that evening and we share a lovely meal. The sun is cresting the skyline when he leaves, nary a word spoken between us, soft pink light filtered through the tattered curtains and lighting up the kitchen wall.
I wake to the same pink light creeping across the sheets.
- June 14, 2012
© Kyle McCluer