They’re just words on a bench.
When you see them, breathe. Remember to turn the bicycle around slowly, angling up off the protected lane and onto the empty sidewalk.
Position yourself just so, with your phone held out to compose the picture you’re taking, so the woman walking past you can see what you’re doing clearly enough to risk a smile.
Ponder the effort it takes to perform this self-love, the forms it can take, from fruitlessly flogging yourself around the lake on the first day heralding a series of harbinger-of-climate-change hot-weather stretches, to purchasing the tires, chain and hand grips that will improve the ease and quality of your flogging.
The other advice written in the same wide purple scrawl on the bench is no easier to follow, but what can you expect from words on a bench like: “Spread love and follow ur dreams.”
I used to say that sometimes working at a newspaper feels a little like living your life in a house that’s just a little bit on fire. Sometimes that meant it felt a bit like one of the scenes from “Synecdoche, New York” and sometimes that meant feeling like the “this-is-fine” dog, but I pretty much cut it out after last December, because for real though.
Going to a grocery store that’s part of a chain swallowed whole by an online book seller? That was me today, always distracted by the music that plays while I make my purchase, grease the wheels of capitalism, pay a little bit of money and a little bit of attention where they’re not yet but soon might be one and the same.
I can only imagine just how much tighter and brighter and on-the-nose the algorithms governing everything from the spot-cleaning of the aisles to the bands and artists on the store playlists are going to get.
I didn’t have to work until the afternoon. I managed to put off having to go anywhere downtown until after the parade. This meant noticing the swelling of the city’s population and the celebration on city streets nearby at the margins. I looked out my bedroom window and saw a plane skywriting hashtags into the fathomless blue overhead, and thought to myself, there’s a job minting money on a day like today with hundreds of thousands of people out. There’s a war on for people’s attentions, and what’s easier than little white puffs of smoke out a plane’s rear-end?
The other folks fighting the day’s battle were the men tasked with gathering up all the crowd-control barriers lining the downtown streets, navigating confetti and sandbags and suspect curbs to lift them onto flatbed trucks.
And then there was the addict leaning against one of the newsroom’s false doors, lighting up a pipe in between racuous tuneless belts of song, cheerily taking the hot dog I offered when I asked if he was hungry, and asking me in turn if I could help him get off drugs. Now there’s a war you don’t get asked to fight every day. I said I couldn’t help him, but I’d handed him food he might remember to consume. Maybe that might get him to tomorrow, but this late in the day, how hard could that be?
Today, I needed little pops of color against a dull backdrop, and I found them here, against one of the falsest buildings around.
Force me to make an appointment more than a week out to get something looked at, and I’ll do what I have to do to get it taken care of. Now all I have to do is remember to cancel the appointment I made, so someone else can benefit from the time I preemptively carved out of my schedule.
Take away even more in a series of good people away from the place I work, and I’ll do what I have to do to get something good out of it, even if I can’t talk about it or move on it this week.
So I could laugh at least, when I walked into the ice cream shop for a pint and found I wasn’t in the mood for any of their pre-packed rainbow flavors like vegan matcha or pumpkin cheesecake or “dirty south.” I waited for them to make mine vanilla to-go. Today I’ve more than enough flavor in my life in need of a dull backdrop, thanks for asking.