I was born into a world of rattling radiators. My mother’s house was so warm I’d sleep naked with the windows open, and once woke up sprinkled in snow. Our apartment in San Francisco was so cold it was like camping out, complete with down sleeping bags. I slept under my coat in airports, hospitals, and even my own house. I am Goldilocks, simultaneously too hot and too cold. I had a boyfriend who called me “Miss Sex Appeal Lower Slobovia” because I went to bed in a knit hat and knee socks. My husband, a decade into my menopause, asked “why are you lying there awake in the middle of the night without any blankets?” Which I had been doing for ten years.
I am hot, I am cold, and none of this in a good way.
However, this heater turned decorative outsider art piece cheers me as it snows here in the southern Rockies. I wrote a poem yesterday claiming it is November, but you know that isn’t true.
Aarne Anton on Misfits on FB writes:
“A heater turned into a shrine by an unknown artist. It was part of a show I called Obsessive & Accumulative Art.”
Follow him for unlimited vision.