Mellowright Preview

From the upcoming EP, Sexegesis, by Integr8d Soul. This weekend- a week later- we updated it with some of MK's backing vox. I could describe it technically, but what about your mood after that?

A half an hour spent describing four minutes: a writing exercise about daily observations

So, when we are born, we cry with an ‘accent.’ We begin to cry in our native accent on the second day. That's one of those things you might learn, and kind of re-learn, much later. Such trivia can sustain poetry, though. Writing. Have you been writing lately? Did you want to Write? Going with the flow, here's this.

2:38 pm A nice neighbor was drying her clothes, too, almost an hour ago. Do I want to get deeply into describing her appearance? How can I do it, with genuineness? Let’s see what I learn from the simple practice of describing a casual encounter. Sometimes, we discover and try to ameliorate our own shallow prejudices. Sure, it’s just another human being, and for most public interactions, it matters not at all what age, size, color or creed we bear.
With a certain cursory function to realize it’s a child or not. Social awareness skills to gauge our own need for interaction- or none. Sometimes we’re in too internalized a state for any acknowledgment, too.
So I found myself thinking of how to describe her, someone I saw peripherally, except for one meeting of eyes. The interaction could be described without gender or age characterized.
I became conscious that I didn’t want to describe her, judgmentally, though it’s amusing to note how reflexive this can become- the ‘parts we never say aloud.’ But I’d feel limited and
somewhat displeased, to write a judgmental description, unless that was the character/narrator’s perspective.



So, I’m heading down to dry a load.
My neighbor punched in the code, then held open the door. “Hi, how’re you doing?” she says. I’m doing great. We mill past the Coke machine that’s only full of hot drinks, into the comforting atmosphere. Its baleful neon light flicks, and reveals a regularly-maintained laundry room. I open Washer One, the furthest left of three, and speak to her, busy at Washer Two. I take my basket left, then turn and hang my dryer sheet on the open window-door of Dryer Two, the fifth of the six numbered laundry machines.
“Would you like Number Four?” I offered- that would be closer for her.
“Oh, whichever one is fine,” she said.

She appeared to be 5’ 4”, in her late 30s to early forties. Blond hair, high cheeks, no makeup. I hesitate to linger on any ‘defects’ that might not make her feel good, thinking of it. I could also include what a character thinks of him/herself, as ‘she considered herself plain, but warm-hearted.

Truthfully, ’plain’ almost bespeaks some kind of expectation of what her appearance is supposed to ‘do ‘ for others. But she seemed happy, and I find happiness in people, beautiful; only Anger tends to disrupt the beauty, and passion for the angry person can have some startlingly attraction. She had something to do, and it’s true, many times women do not bother with any or more than the simplest cosmetics. And why do more than you feel like? She was very open, speaking to me.

We knew it’d be a cursory interaction. I think I’m interested in each one, at the time, knowing I will forget entire co-workers’ names and faces and stories, especially where I delivered for Domino’s or Pizza Hut, because you’re hardly part of the store. Angela remembered someone I worked with who got pregnant despite a tube-tie. I know it’s so, but no name or face came to me, so I began wondering in those store memories. Truthfully, making boxes and fighting off three muggers one night is all I really remember about Domino’s before Cali, besides our transmission failing and occasional heartburn. Aunt Linda helped me finish off a few pies, since we stayed with her at the time.
Digression like this are why I locked onto the structure of Romance Novels, when I wrote Anywhere with You and stuck to the ongoing plot consistently.
I could feel she enjoyed my brief company. I think she is one of the many, many people here I meet who intends regularly to ‘love everyone.’
I mention, knelt before the open front-loading washer, “I check this rubber gasket for socks.” “Yeah, I do, too!” she says. “I used not to, but if socks get trapped in there, they don’t really get washed, either.” “True! “
At this point, she’s got her hamper in front of machine five. “| will probably make somebody mad, ‘cause I’ve got to go somewhere and it might take more than an hour, but heh! What can I do?”
“I’m sure it’ll be a-ok,” I say, uncurling sock pairs I’d neglected to separate upon loading. My wife always balls up her dirties. I set aside Sam, my mostly-head stuffed monkey, who I'd found under the bed. I realize a household's story can be found in its laundry.

I think we wished each other a great afternoon, with sincerity. She was out the door, on her way in her yellow hoodie, to the sunny, cusp-of-freezing courtyard.
And I thought: damn, she got my dryer sheet!