There’s no magic pathway to dressed in black dancefloor redemption, no distracted wandering off a soundstage into an office casual ouroborotic rehearsal in the round. Not only can’t one step in the same river twice, one ain’t supposed to. Some things aren’t just impossible: they’re also wrong.
I’m pretty sure there’s something I’ve been Getting Wrong, the kind of thing I have to pretty much fix first by reaching the point where I’m more Tired Of It. I may not know exactly what to do, but I’m feeling fairly certain about what to Stop Doing.
Tuesday? Tacos. Sitting with a friend, doing the remembering-when, talking about important stuff and then deciding on dessert, trying to count how many movies got seen last year, and how other poorly scripted portrayals are currently doing.
Just about a decade following me around, backpack to bag, apartment to room, desk after shelf after floor, dodging drinks and connecting me with the worlds beyond, precarious yet sturdy, and soon scattered to the elements and perhaps back into someone else’s arms anew.
Even behind the wheel in the rain earlier this weekend, I could see it shimmering ahead of me and hanging out over the reservoir like it belonged there, with the same ease and comfort I’ve seen the marine layer show when it clung to the top of the hills. It wasn’t a promise of freedom from pain or an assurance of safety or certainty. But it was beautiful and it was up ahead of me, and even if I could never reach it, it was more than enough reward for a moment’s attention.
The walk happened because I showed up early and thought I could get some steps in. It wouldn’t have been the same if I’d decided instead to get off the bus early. I saw some delightful music books and good-trashy sci-fi paperbacks for the second day in a row, this time at a record shop with window posters and jazz music on a turntable.
After a walk along the creek, we stopped in at the library and browsed a little bit over the five-for-a-dollar paperback novels, the free COVID tests with the chart posted to show that their expiration dates had been extended, the voter registration forms, the fliers for adult education classes at the community college and the puzzle and craft gatherings coming up at local library branches. Later, we did the takeaway thing at the spot. Fridays, what a concept.
The blooper reel got a little longer with this morning’s first-time stunt; failing to acquire lunch didn’t help matters much. But there was a book when I needed one, translated from the German and audacious enough in format to bode well for the weekend’s expected limited downtime.
Midweek torpor saw some listlessness dispelled through sheer willpower, more than my share of snacks, a sense of panic sharing across the surface of some folks’ skin and a little bit of sun. I’m not going to say the Khruangbin didn’t help some either. Maybe plans to take care of a couple of Necessary Things will as well.
The day is full of natural barriers and unnatural ones: toll plaza lights come on when more vehicles arrive than can be accommodated; cappuccinos grow legs atop cafe counters and disappear into crowds if not taken in time; under-sung producers rule rainy day commutes.
