A picture is worth. . . four words, apparently. I am like the Rain Man. Late each afternoon, I make a cocktail and sit on the deck with the butterflies, cats, and birds and watch the neighborhood parade pass by. Bored, I take a phone pic of my drink. And then, still bored, I send it around to my friends. I thought this one was snappier in that I framed it differently. My travel/art buddy responded dryly.
"Same old, same old."
Until tomorrow at least, I have nothing but phone pics to show.
I spent the bulk of yesterday working on the hard drives. I am pretty sure I have the "Lonesomeville" era done. I deleted redundant copies, combined folders, and got everything labelled and in the right places. And when that was done, I started looking through some of the "lost" files I have not seen in years and years.
It was mid-afternoon when I stopped. I was woozy and bleary eyed with sitting and staring, and I had what is certain to be the beginnings of carpal tunnel. I was uncertain what to do. Take a walk? The day was bright and sunny and beautiful.
I put on my clothes and went to the gym. Yea. . . I know.
Afterwards, I stopped by my mother's house, but she and my cousin were still at a party, so I was off the hook. I went home, and without showering, grabbed my camera and a new roll of film and headed out. I was on my way to Gotham.
Gotham was rocking. The streets were packed, music coming from all directions. There were crowds and food trucks. I was anxious to get out and start strolling, but there was no place to park. I drove and drove and drove but there were no empty spaces. There was either a soccer game soon or it was just over, for I could see the banners and people wearing club paraphernalia. Either way, it was hopeless.
As I drove from light to light, I realized how much I was writing in my head. It wasn't nice.
"These are the hoi-poloi, the great unwashed. Volume is their weapon and their power. They have to be loud to be proud. Quiet is the enemy. Noise reigns supreme. Music, cars, motorcycles. . . . They come from their tract bunny hutch homes with the sandspur yards and curbless streets and from small, overpriced apartments overlooking highways and parking lots on the edge of Big Lots and Walmarts to come together in these streets. Braided hair and dreadlocks, ghetto nails and shoes with sparkles, everything screams."
I began to realize why I always get into scuffles in a crowd. It is my attitude. It is not good. My younger, theory-laden,
Woke friends will come and enjoy the spectacle. If confronted, they are willing to give up their beer or their seat with a "man. . . sure. . . it's yours" and an amazed laugh. They can eat dirty food from food trucks on dirty streets among the sweaty throng and say, "It was sooo cool. We ate at Marley's Caribbean and danced all night at the Dirty Turtle."
Me? I'm an asshole. I prefer quieter, smaller, more "sophisticated" places. But even there, I am troubled by all the conservative republican types. Oh, they're clean and smell fine, but I want to swing on the smug fuckers.
And so. . . I think I'll go back to the hippie place. It is small and outdoors and goofy as fuck with astrology and tarot and crystals, with conga drums and flutes and herbal teas, but it is pretty easy. Q said that he was surprised I didn't go back on Saturday night to hear the live music. I said I would have come home with some young hippie girl with hairy underarms and unshaved legs and dirty feet.
"Two," he said. "You have to have two."
And I realized he was right. They could tend the garden and make the bread and we could all live on my money just like Candide. My travel/art buddy is always saying that I should spend it all since I have no one to leave it to. Q, by the way, adamantly disagrees.
That is what I thought yesterday while trying to find a parking space. Having no luck, I drove to the liquor store and went home.
Hence today's photo.
My cousin leaves to go back to Ohio today. My mother will be sad. She has had the constant company and companion noise for a couple months now. My cousin has taken her shopping and dining at all the wrong places which makes them both very happy. They've gone to garage sales and have sat for endless hours talking to the neighbors. My mother doesn't like me as much when my cousin is here. For all I do for her, I am not "fun."
I guess I'm not. I'd like to say I used to be, but I think that might be a lie for another time.
Still. . . I make a mean loaf of Banana Poop Bread. Thank you Ili for that one.
The day is a carbon copy of the past few, and I must get out in it. I am changing my schedule, at least today. I want to go out with my camera and catch the morning light. Yes. . . I think I will. Pretty sure. I might.
I'll let you know.
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