blazing bottles
i think it's healthy to take time out of my busy writing schedule to write some more.
today, after i woke up and was waiting for my coffee to infuse darkly in the french press, my housemate and i small-talked in the kitchen.
at some point she wandered over to the bathroom and i heard some high-pitched screaming and yelping. is there a cockroach in there or something? i thought. 'are you OK?' i asked, going towards the bathroom. she flung the door open with one hand while attempting to smother a two-foot-high flame with a bathtowel.
kids: do not leave a burning candle unattended, especially if it's sitting on a PLASTIC shelf. geez.
i ran into the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water, and we took turns dousing our toiletry shelves, putting the fire out after a few minutes. (burning plastic has a slothy, lethargic reaction to water being splashed on it.)
there was a smoke stain crawling up the wall and plasticky soot floating around the bathroom. since we live in a warehouse, there are lots of construction eccentricities about the space, like an exposed gap about twelve or fifteen feet up the wall that opens into the 'foyer' area of my bedroom (which used to be a freight-elevator shaft). so now, on my shelves of clothing and ceramic bowls of jewelry and junk, there is plastic ash speckling everything like a light dusting of black snow. how christmasy!
our other housemate's toiletry stuff melted into the top shelf. i had a black horn of plastic growing out of one of my tubes of facial scrub, but i twisted it off. most of my stuff was salvageable, and she cleaned the bathroom, and now all our windows are open to air out the burnt plastic smell. a blazing start to the weekend.
today's soundtrack for writing writing writing: highway 880
setting: cold, cloudy, gray oakland day
upside: eventually i got to take a shower and there was no plastic on my soap
today, after i woke up and was waiting for my coffee to infuse darkly in the french press, my housemate and i small-talked in the kitchen.
at some point she wandered over to the bathroom and i heard some high-pitched screaming and yelping. is there a cockroach in there or something? i thought. 'are you OK?' i asked, going towards the bathroom. she flung the door open with one hand while attempting to smother a two-foot-high flame with a bathtowel.
kids: do not leave a burning candle unattended, especially if it's sitting on a PLASTIC shelf. geez.
i ran into the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water, and we took turns dousing our toiletry shelves, putting the fire out after a few minutes. (burning plastic has a slothy, lethargic reaction to water being splashed on it.)
there was a smoke stain crawling up the wall and plasticky soot floating around the bathroom. since we live in a warehouse, there are lots of construction eccentricities about the space, like an exposed gap about twelve or fifteen feet up the wall that opens into the 'foyer' area of my bedroom (which used to be a freight-elevator shaft). so now, on my shelves of clothing and ceramic bowls of jewelry and junk, there is plastic ash speckling everything like a light dusting of black snow. how christmasy!
our other housemate's toiletry stuff melted into the top shelf. i had a black horn of plastic growing out of one of my tubes of facial scrub, but i twisted it off. most of my stuff was salvageable, and she cleaned the bathroom, and now all our windows are open to air out the burnt plastic smell. a blazing start to the weekend.
today's soundtrack for writing writing writing: highway 880
setting: cold, cloudy, gray oakland day
upside: eventually i got to take a shower and there was no plastic on my soap
posted by a wandering eye at 3:34 PM
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