suburban home

Back to my beloved suburban bedroom. The upstairs front master bedroom with its solid bow windows, so suggestive of calm and rest. You can even climb on the roof, the pinkish tiles, sit there and meditate on life looking out over the rooftops, a very relaxing place to be. Very private too. A place where can be seen, the broiling sun going down behind the far purple mountain top, illuminating briefly its august crags, or diverse weather conditions, glimpses of sun between drifting cloud, flashes of inspiration... and beneath stretch the polite and empty suburbs.

Where in drippy autumns i can invade discarded master bedrooms. It's instructive to measure the proportions of the casements to bolster your sense of ownership. Balance on the radiator, your fingertips clawing at the top of the sturdy windowframe, the trusty double glazing. If you swing it open you can see reflected the familiar sleepy street, but in reverse of course so it looks like someone else's street, someone else's slumbering driveways and chimneys and rainwashed tiles. Then when almost shut the mirrored surface, smooth and clear as a real mirror, shows an unexpected reflection; straight into next door's master bedroom, where the woman of the house is sitting. Outside black night has fallen, making the few lighted suburban bedroom windows blaze like so many jewels in the dark. She's a sturdy suburban brunette, she hunkers down by the bed to read the instructions of some self-assembly desk she's received. I see her thick white brastrap fall from out of her sleeveless top and remain against her plump upper arm, her face concentrating. My hand inches toward my fly.

Until i lose my balance and fall off the radiator.

O autumnal somnolent suburbs, plush-carpeted bedrooms, yellow lights in windows isolated amongst blackness, where the voyeurs stumble...