I like imagining things visually when they are said. This makes for a quite amusing exercise when hearing certain sayings, like, “Cat got your tongue” and “Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
Last night I was taking a bath (in freezing cold water to combat my apartment heat. But I sipped tea, as well), and continued reading “A Short History of Nearly Everything” by Bill Bryson. He made reference again to, “the world beyond your window,” and that got me to thinking. This past year, I have spent many a moment at my desk in my bedroom, staring at my computer screen. More often than not, this turns into staring out my window. Staring at the Dalmatian in the next backyard over. Staring at the people on the street walking their dogs, walking with their top halves almost bent over to combat fierce winter winds, people stumbling drunkenly after leaving the bars. Looking out my bedroom window has come to be one of my favourite past times. Of course, not always. There was the time I had the misfortune of being treated to a fat, hairy nude men show from the window one floor down and opposite me. Or the time I looked out just in time to catch a pale girl with messy hair vomiting into our trashcan as she held onto its rim for dear life.
I am lucky enough to have a sprawling tree outside my window. In the spring and summer I am treated to a close-up view of the squirrels and birds that make it home. As a tenant, I especially enjoy the falling red leaves of fall, because I do not have to rake them. In the winter, I am able to see through to its other side, as it is naked. I can see the spot at its trunk base where my sister and I made a memorial for my beta fish Prince who died this spring. (My sister assembled some sparkly confetti, some fish food, marbles and beads to place behind a notch in the roots).
I hear the calls of my friends as they yell up for me to open the door, because our doorbell is broken. My window brings in the sounds of cars and city busses, the loud motorcycle belonging to the man two houses down, the late-night sailor songs of drunken men, the construction on the new building beside me as I wake up, sometimes a bird, sometimes the ruffling plastic of homeless people sorting through my trash.
I can look out from behind my clear mesh curtains at my backyard visitors without them seeing me, which can be a fun sort of spy game. I can look out my window and see the sky turn from blue to pink to navy blue to black over the rooftops of apartments, salons and embassies. When I open my eyes in the morning, they are first drawn to the window to evaluate the weather: gray or sunny?
My window is tall and wide enough for me to cross my arms and tilt my head upon. I will miss it when I move, but that’s not for another month or so.