Listening to: “Mean Mr. Mustard” – The Beatles

After spending most of the day in coughing up phlegm (Who loves midwinter colds? Hands? Hands?), I climbed up to the roof of my building tonight to catch the lunar eclipse. It was cold like the icy hands of death, but it was worth it.

(That’s from a newspaper by the way; I don’t have a camera what could photograph that shit.) I found that if you stare at the moon for long enough, it starts to look more and more three-dimensional. I mean, obviously it is, the moon, but usually through the naked eye, it looks more like cut paper. I must’ve watched it for about ten minutes straight between 9:55 and 10:05pm, till after awhile it looked like it was getting brighter rather than darker.

That whole red moon thing, though… man. Ancient civilizations must have been terrified when they saw that. I mean, could you imagine? The moon covered in blood with no scientific explanation? I’d probably’ve killed all my livestock, set fire to the high temple, and called it quits.

I should go up on my roof more often, even though there’s an official-looking sign threatening a $200 fine if you’re caught up there. Silly. Sign wasn’t there a year ago. I went up there a lot more during the summer and the fall to smoke my occasional nerve-cigarette and look at the skyline as Allston grinds away below.

Once last summer, I brought a couple of friends to the roof and we stuck our heads over the sides, laying our bodies out flat on the tar and watching the world pass six (six? Christ, how do I not know how many floors my building is?) stories below.

Another time, I saw a girl on a neighboring roof dancing with fire poi–those flaming balls on chains–while her friend videotaped her. it was dark and late, and the street was quiet, and you could hear the flames moving through the air.

There’s a building across the avenue from mine that’s very art deco-ey, but not like, actually built in ’30s. More like early ’70s revival art deco. It looks like it would be more at home on Ocean Drive in South Beach than on Comm. Ave. in Beantown. When the lights are on in the penthouse apartments, it looks like a throwback disco wonderland inside, with black-and-white tiled everything and strange, bright furniture. I’d love to meet whoever lives there and crash the place.

And on that note, it’s time for sick freelance writers everywhere to go the fuck to sleep. Goodnight moon, goodnight room, goodnight chair, goodnight box of styrofoam wig heads, goodnight dog licking his asshole… ummm… everywhere.

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