If you put rhinoceros horns on giant rats and then put a crash of them in the apartment to the east of me and in the apartment to the west of me, you might begin to imagine what it sounds like right now.

The renovations apparently continue. They began continuing at 8:30 this morning. Apartments on both sides of me have been empty for some time now. I don’t really miss my neighbors on my west side. They were not very social, at least with me – and by this I mean they would, when I passed them, hurry to get inside their apartment, rather than speak with me – although they must have been social with their friends. They had people over often and they used to smoke dope on the balcony. It’s not as nice as it sounds. I have never liked that smell. And they never offered to share. And they acted afraid of Murphy. They left months and months ago and nobody has moved in since. Nobody likes my apartment building. They have been renovating for over a year now. And they are not nearly done yet. This might give you some idea how bad it was. Also, my refrigerator and my stove are older than I am. And only new apartments, emptied apartments, are getting new appliances.

Presumably both apartments on either side of me are getting new appliances. From the sound of it, they are also getting new drywall. Or new shelving. That, or they’ve installed bumper cars next door. My neighbor on the east of me was a yoga-loving Asian girl who operated, I think, a legitimate (I can only guess) deep tissue massage business out of her apartment. She met a man and they’ve married and left. I don’t know if he was a former client.

I’ve said that my apartment is tiny. I’ve also said I’m a compulsive collector. Yes I collect compulsions but what I meant was I collect compulsively. So that my tiny little apartment is set on collapse. Every inside of and every on top of and every under is packed with miscellany. The tiniest tremor would bury me in a barrage of books, CDs, plants, knick knacks and bric a brac. Meanwhile, with two apparently unrentable apartments on either side of me, it’s been a little bit of torture. And for the longest time I’ve considered getting a saw, or even a spoon a la Shawshank Redemption, and dig out a crawl hole behind my bed and into the next apartment. Where I would turn it into a secret studio for painting and taking photographs, and of course, it would be a giant playroom for Murph. I have resisted, but only just barely. I could hide the hole on my side very well but I don’t know how I could have hidden it on the other side. Also I was turned off a little by the idea of the dead vapors of pot-smoking ghosts.

Meanwhile the pounding and the noise. Still.

There’s a tree out front with a giant yellow cross painted on it. And it stood that way, ominously, for three or four months. Marked for something, I didn’t know what, but I guessed. And so it happened that about a week ago, the leaves, the branches, were stolen and removed. And so it happens that there remains only a large tree trunk still marked with a giant yellow cross. It’s ghastly. It is a giant totem of death and pain. And my guess is they are going to leave it there all winter where it will take on an even more miserable aspect. I want to go out in the night with some red paint and paint over the yellow cross of death with one of those red crosses they use on first aid kits. But it would be useless, of course; that tree is thoroughly dead.

And still the pounding and the noise and that’s as much as I could hope to think or write as my exile is assailed on both sides.

SS