Cloistered

I was supposed to go to The Cloisters today with Pat Pillar. Supposed to be inspired, to be humbled... something enlightening like that. But instead, here I am, in my room, waiting and waiting... waiting for my landlord to come by with tools and articles of plumbing so that he can fix my bathroom.

The kitchen, without an air conditioner, is roasting in hot summer sun, blanched in humidity. The living room, with large, undressed windows, is a blinding hell. And, with no one home, not even the dog, there is no reason to speak, and I'm a veritable monk for a day.

Fortunately, my bedroom--the master bedroom I won in a coin toss--is a 170 square foot playhouse, with a piano and a keyboard, depending on how classy I'm feeling; a new batch of books I harvested from my trip to Kansas; a ceramic hen, a paper llama, and a pair of bronze alligators; and two jars of coins I may very well decide to organize and hand-count for the heck of it. This is no austere retreat.

Unfortunately, though, my bathroom--the master bathroom--is out of commission until my landlord so chooses to show up. And until then, I wait in my room alone, apart from anything else.