My Window

All my life, I've loved my bedroom windows almost as much as I've loved my bedroom itself. My room is my space, it's my sanctuary, it's my place to always be able to come back to where no one else needs to be. I have an overactive imagination. My room is the space where I can watch the play happening in my brain without worrying about my facial expressions.

But my windows have always been the perfect compromise between inner and outer life, especially at night when the sun's gone down and the door's closed and the whole world feels just a little bit claustrophobic. I love it when there are enough trees outside my window to give me privacy, but whose branches still split enough for me to see the stars. There's nothing like falling asleep by your window in the summer time, letting the crickets lull you to sleep while the last blinks of the fireflies dance against the twinkle of the stars. It's a symphony on the other side of the window screen.

Now, I know that city life does not afford this same pleasure. (I also know that I'm missing the cicadas this year and I have thoughts and feelings about that, too.) I know that you trade your tree line for a cityscape and I suppose that's even. I wouldn't have been able to take pictures like this from my room in Chapel Hill.

My tiny room has had a small saving grace in that I'm quite pleased with the view out my window. It could be better, but it could be a lot worse. And it's floor to ceiling, so even if it is the only window in the room, at least it lets in a lot of light. I hung an extra, thinner curtain so I could keep the blackout one pulled to the side and let the sun wake me up. It's a bit of a problem now that the sun gets up before 5am, but I manage somehow.

The thing that drives me nuts about my window, though, is not that it doesn't have a screen nor that it looks out over buildings. The thing that drives me nuts about my window is the mud spatters.

Seen here on the righthand side of the window, in all their sunset glory.

The mud spatters were one of the first things I noticed about my room because of course I went straight to my window and you can't help but see 'em. There's an active construction site right across from us so I assume it got thrown up from there but I also knew that Scotland was rainy and so I assumed they'd get washed away within a day or two.

Boy, was I wrong. These suckers have endured. The window's a little bit inset and so it doesn't even get properly soaked by the rain, even by storms, but still, I admire their dedication to ruining my view daily. Pretty sunset outside? Random fireworks over Carlton Hill or the castle? Particularly impressive clouds? Really dumb seagull on an adjacent roof? Better be ready to climb your desk and contort your body into odd angles because these mud spots are here. to. stay. 

Then again, one of my first nights here, I went to the window and for once it was clear and I could see the Big Dipper (which they actually do call the Plow here-- I had thought that was just a pedantic parenthetical in constellation books) and the Little Dipper hanging up in the sky over the city and it's like the mud never existed. The spatters couldn't block out my night sky. 

Life is like that, I think. You assume rain will wash away what's past, but some spots are stubborn. For mine, I'd have to make a complaint, call in a professional cleaning crew to scaffold up to the fifth floor because I can't open the window wide enough to get to them. It's not worth it to me for a little bit of aesthetic peace. Whenever they get around to it is fine. We'll manage until then.

Besides, if I really wanted to see beauty, I could just leave my flat.