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.
Over the bridge after threading our way across the city, onto the freeway and back and forth along the highway stopping for groceries and browsing for books and and shattering our feelings on one of the best of last year’s movies before faking myself out on at a store, stopping for takeaway and finally settling in.
I should have made it over here four months ago when the pavement opened up at that intersection around the corner, but better late than never. I hope the spot next door is doing as well as it looks, because the line was long when I poked my nose in and thought about having enough time to grab a beverage before my ride showed up.
We managed to host some friends and deploy snacks and beverages during a lovely discussion, finishing up one volume and picking out a new one after some delightful suggestions, and spent the rest of the day after they left quietly puttering around while the rain picked up outside.
The moon is still new, and some types say it’s time to contemplate starting things. But I’m still focused on the other things, because of Events This Week that have me looking at city maps, weighing time and peering into chat logs and scribbling out memories. On top of that, it might be time for another (redacted) after nearly a decade.
I don’t think about the back of my hand. It’s just always there, holding everything together, usually out of sight if I’m cupping something or counting or doing some other task. Even when I’m actually looking at it, I’m looking through it instead, my attention on whatever I’m writing, keeping the head of the pen or pencil on the paper in front of me. No rings, no tattoos, no fingerprints, just bones and veins, nails and skin and melanin, always behind everything I grip or let slip.
I did a genuine double take at beating the rain to work, then spent the rest of my day slowly shaking my head, waving as the water headed eastbound and uphill, worrying about its potential, then winnowing my way through its impact, then winding my way home and watching it hang over the city and then the hills even as the western skies teased a toning up and a timing shift.