I cried twice in a single twelve hour period, and in retrospect i’m not really too bothered by either. People are meant to cry; it releases the pressure that builds behind your eyelids — builds from sideways glances and offhand comments. And sometimes it is like a broken dam, and sometimes it is the trickle of a leaking faucet.
It is practically spring, and i will definitely ride with the windows down if she lets me.
Personal
Earlier…
Septa sometimes paints you a pretty picture, if you get far enough away from the constant hum and hustle of motors in the city. It’s their tracks that caught my attention . . . tendrils arcing out from tangled skeins of track that echo ever inward to create the swirling mess of 30th street station.
The pictures, though, it’s about the pictures.
I am in North Philadelphia, the cool not-quite-evergreen metal of a bench leaving alternating slats of cool and warm skin on the backs of my legs. I imagine that i must look silly – – all curled and cross-legged in my business attire, like a child at a party who’s tired out from playing with the adults.
Which . . . maybe i am.
Just now an older black gentleman walked down into the station, and the heels of his polished shoes rang out against the stairs like hollow wooden bells. He is in a suit so royal blue that i’m fairly convinced that it’s purple. He his with him an oddly shaped silver suitcase and a wide-brimmed hat . . . just now he was sitting on the former and adjusting the latter. For a moment he stood, lifted the case up to a ledge on the wall, carefully opened the clasps, and inside i could see the tell tale velvet that enwombs a shiny instrument . . .a saxophone, or clarinet. But, that peek was all i got, as he snapped it closed and set it back down after only the most cursory inspection.
I wanted to ask him to play . . . i would’ve given him all of my money. Here’s my train.
Funny… i meant to talk about the wooden station with it’s ancient awning, but now i’m headed back. But… i think i still managed to say what i was feeling.
I don’t run much; i am not used to the rhythm of my footfalls and how the ground echoes my impact back up through my legs.
I am at a loss for words, lately. Much like Rabi, i am being drowned in this week’s swirling whirlwind of work. I don’t know how i feel… or, maybe i do know how i feel and i just can’t quite put it into wording that works on the web.
Last night i got home for good around one in the morning, and got to sleep an undetermined amount of time later. Today i left the house just before eleven, and i think i might make it home within twelve hours. This is exciting.
I need a weekend.
This Rocks. And, i hadn’t seen May in months. That is all.
Um, guys? I implicitly trust your opinion when it comes to links of the day, and this seems really fascinating, … … but i can’t figure out quite what the fuck it’s about.
Any ideas? And, while i’m in a link frenzy…) I can’t decide if milk came out of my nose after reading this excursion in creative parenting because it a) Reminds me of the sortof wacky reasoning my mother might have employed b) Seems like something Melly would say four years from now c) Sounds like it could be the cousin of something found on Henry’s Diary d) Makes me miss the wonder of being four, and look forward to seeing it through a different set of eyes eventually.
Actually, all four. Although, i definitely imagined the phrase “Millennium Falcon” spoken by my mother at some point in the middle of the entry, which was definitely creepy. Link stolen from the newly over-the-hill JillMatrix, who’s hotter at 40 than Sheryl Crow is. And, she easily rocks just as much.
Oh, and, hey, i know why he has his windows open! Right now he has a ton of friends over and they’re all smoking dope and re-graffiti-ing his room. So, i suppose that mystery has been solved… excuse me while i rock on with my bad self for spying them in the act!