1 potato, 2 potatoes, 3 potatoes, 4. 5 potatoes, 6 potatoes, 7 potatoes, more.
I’m writing this as I lay on my old couch that I’m sure is bug-ridden.
At a different time it was recently-assembled, sitting in my tiny apartment in Seattle. Everything about it felt new and exciting. It felt like jazz music. Mysterious, different, cool, smart, ever-changing.
We took the couch with us as we departed the gloomy Northwest a year later and headed back to California. It did not quite fit.
It reminded us of our old ways and I wanted to get rid of it. It was a snob who didn’t want to change. Someone who knew all the right people and bought all the books. Someone who didn’t know how to laugh, tell a joke or enjoy the weather.
It rained today in Marina del Rey. As the fires rage on in Pacific Northwest, my couch is a reminder to me that everything changes. It’s a wise couch now, it’s been places and it has no reason to pretend it’s something it’s not. I love this couch. I hope it’ll be here for a while.