El Dorado Springs

Anatomy of a Holiday

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I think you called me here. I am here. The shiny water-repellent quilt on the bed was pulled back when I crawled into the room. I didn’t do that. The two flat pillows without cases, delirious with the sick green light of the room, lean awkwardly together in the center of the bed. The yellow seams wither. I talk about these things not to avoid what I am thinking, but because they cause me to think what I am thinking. The luggage rack is the type with straps. Four straps span the uprights. I’ve draped my blazer over it. Over the blazer I’ve put my little sack. The handles on the desk and the small two-drawer nightstand are the only coordinated details in the room. Of the décor theirs are the only discernible figures: twisted antique brass strands end each with two flaccid leaves. The sunken armchair upholstery is gridded with dingy colored fields. Within each cell is a different icon: four bars, a diamond, a loose collection of dots that I cannot reproduce when I close my eyes, a star. The icon that repeats most often is a thick involute spiral. Though mismatched, the combination of rectangular shapes adorns the quilt, though punctuated by prominent red lotus silhouettes, is also marked by variously collected spirals. Some run in long rows, some in squat rows, some in grids, and some stranded alone in bound squares. When in multiples each spiral has a different origin and rotation. I notice these things, and these things are part of this story because they are inescapable. They rationalize what I am saying.

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Presented in standard television aspect ratio.

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