A 1930s Studio in Austin

I just woke up from an afternoon nap in a 1930s studio in downtown Austin.

A comforting aroma percolates through layers of paint from decades of touch-ups. It’s a smell that inhabits homes pushing centenary status.

There’s a distinct “1970s” vibe.

The curtains are made of burlap—the sun is doing everything it can to penetrate them. They’re letting the perfect amount of light in to illuminate alabaster walls and ancient hardwood floors.

Dylan is singing “Shelter from the Storm”
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
“Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

A mid-century modern table sits with four chairs—one is broken. My fedora, sunglasses, and chewing tobacco are napping on it.

A vanity in the bathroom is eighteen inches wide and less than three feet tall—it harkens back to a time when people needed less.

I wonder who spent the first night here almost a hundred years ago. Who built the vanity, and who was it built for?

The closet doesn’t have a light. It’s tiny—perfect for my shirts and ties.

A ceiling fan from the ’80s circulates warm Texas air—the strings that hang from it gyrate in predictable wiggly forms.

Lying next to me is Caro’s biography of LBJ, a collection of Robert Frost poetry, and plaid pajamas.

A mourning dove sits in a nest in a telephone pole that’s eye level from my room. I named her Bertha.

I could spend the rest of my life here listening to Dylan.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Austin, TX