[22] Dispiriting things

A dog howling in the middle of the day. The sight in spring of a trap for catching winter fish. Robes in the plum-pink combination, when it's now the third or fourth month. An ox keeper whose ox has died. A square brazier or a hearth with no fire lit in it. A scholar whose wife has a string of daughters...
- Sei Shonagon




Cat hair on a light colored carpet.
The stretch of Baltimore National Pike between Ingleside Avenue and Route 29: Russell Toyota, where they check your credit and shake their heads in disapproval; Old Country Buffet; Brown's Motel; Brunswick Bowling Lanes; Catonsville Jewelry and Pawn, where I sold jewelry to make rent.
Snow turned to sooty slush, the damp seeping through your shoes.
You wake to discover that you overslept and half the day is gone.





You walk into an airport and walk out again without having gotten on an airplane. As you climb into your car, you catch the faint scent of jet fuel.
You're at a party or work function where the few people you know are talking to strangers.
You're in an unfamiliar city on a business trip and you're walking the streets because you can't sleep. It's too late to call anyone, and all the stores are closed.
You walk into a rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike after having spent a week on a Zen retreat. Everyone looks pasty and glassy-eyed. You pay for your fried chicken and take a seat at the plastic table under the fluorescent lights.