I know it wasn't your direct doing, Tuesday. No one can control nature (though some try), not even days of the week.
But this fierce northerly wind, which, according to the NOAA website, at 3:36 p.m. in my area, was at 37 mph sustained, with 55 mph gusts, had to be your plan. I was having a half-decent dream this morning, involving old haunts in Florida, when I was jolted awake at 10-something, my subconscious mind suddenly becoming aware of today's weather. I've never liked the wind in Southern California, especially when there's no rain to accompany it, and you know that. Right now, outside the window next to the computer, I can hear the leaves on that tree being battered fairly regularly. It settles for a few moments and then the wind's voice gets louder.
Oh, and I'm sure you know how much I love my next-door neighbor's windchimes, which remind me when I'm in bed of how heavy the wind is. I sometimes wish for a gust strong enough to blow them to the floor of their patio, but then remind myself of that kind of damage and I immediately rescind that desire. The lesser the wind, the better for me, but that's not how it is today.
I understand your need for this wind today. You're an ignored day of the week. People intimately know Saturday and Sunday because that's the weekend. Monday is famously reviled because people have to go back to work. Wednesday is hump day, which makes people think about the Friday coming up. Thursday is that one day before Friday which people endure because they know Friday is next.
But you? Tuesday? What distinction do you have among the days of the week? You're another day of work; you're another day of ho-hum, following Monday. You really don't have anything going for you. Sure, people might think of you in relation to what's on TV in the evening, but that's also done for Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, especially for Tivo purposes. So I can understand the wind. Right now, the National Weather Service has a high-wind warning in my area in effect until 6 a.m. tomorrow. Yesterday, it was until 11 a.m. It may please you, but you must also remember that you're done at midnight. Wednesday takes over the wind, and how appropriate that it begins to slow down during the morning, and lets people not worry about it (though I suspect I might be one of the very few to worry, being that I'm not a native of Southern California and have not fully gotten used to this), and begin to think about the Friday to come. Sheesh. You lose either way, huh? The winds are set to become more powerful tonight, so you have some notable command to come, as the hours feel like they go so slow during these events, but as of this moment, you only have 7 hours and 3 minutes left to enjoy it. Meanwhile, I'll be working tonight (I hope) on that book, maybe finishing the fact-based portion of my essay on Dorothy Dandridge, anticipating enough time after I'm done for one or two episodes of Black Books, which came from Netflix today. The only time you'll even enter my thoughts is when I hear the wind next to me while I'm on the computer. Then you settle for a moment or two, at least from my vantage point, and I forget you again. But, It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is on ABC tonight, so you'll be ignored during that too. With all of this, I understand why you are the way you are right now.
(The latest readings came in from the National Weather Service at 4:36 p.m: 42 mph sustained, 56 mph gusts. I hope it stays that way for the rest of the evening and doesn't get worse, but knowing your attitude, that's probably not possible.)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
This is a Friday Night
Come with me. I want you to see this. It's high up in this part of Canyon Country. Just wait until we turn the corner into the parking lot at La Mesa Junior High, my dad's school. Here, he's the computer and business education teacher. Fine work for him, and with having worked 19 years for Southern Bell, which then became BellSouth and was bought up by AT&T years later, he has real-world experience hopefully invaluable to the students he teaches. The technology changes, business practices change, but I think the basics he puts forth every year, such as writing a resume, a business letter, e-mails, they will always remain important.
Yes, here we are! Let me park in my dad's spot in the third row farthest from this awe-inspiring view. Good. Ok, out we go.
Closer to the fence now. Look at that. All those lights. When we moved here six years ago, I never imagined any part of the Santa Clarita Valley could look this beautiful. I imagined so with parts of L.A., such as the skyline, the inside of Union Station, the area surrounding Staples Center, the Walt Disney Concert Hall. That was all confirmed for me over time. But this view, this constantly delivers. Just imagine all the neighborhoods, all the small stores, all the big-box stores within all that you're seeing. I've never tried to learn exactly what areas we're looking at. Not that it reduces the potential for imagination for me, thinking about what those people under those lights might be doing at this moment, but it never seemed necessary in all the time I've lived in this valley. I'm not sure if one of those clusters might be the shopping center where Big Lots is, as well as the groomer we once took our dogs to. There's also a barbecue restaurant there suitable for a once-in-a-while visit. We don't go to Los Angeles every Friday night to find something to do, not with trying to keep the miles low on our PT Cruiser so we can have those miles when we're driving around Las Vegas and Henderson, exploring further and finding the house we want when it comes time to move there. I like it here for Friday nights anyway. All of the valley feels hushed. It's as if it acknowledges the stresses of the past week for its population and adopts a feeling that adds to the relaxation of the residents, indeed if those residents feel like relaxing. Most do, I'm sure.
Now, to get onto the campus. I'm hoping the custodians are about in various classrooms, cleaning. Here we go, past the Multi-Purpose Room, or MPR, as they call it. There's a stage in there, but hardly used for anything. No plays, no musical performances. It would cost more to have anything here in the evening, and the district doesn't have a whole lot of money.
There are two doors there as we approach this gate to our right. The one directly in front of us leads into the gym. The one to its right is where the custodians hang out, also where all their supplies are. It's locked, so they must be around the school, but look at this! This heavy, black-painted gate is ajar. There's enough room to get in.
In front of us is the courtyard. This is where the kids gather every morning. That door to our immediate right is where they keep an ice cream machine, pretzel storage unit, and I think there's something for nacho cheese. There's also lockers for the campus supervisors, and a desk. To our left are the boys and girls bathrooms. One of the assistant principals has an obsession with graffiti in them and it's a good obsession, but it also involves a camera. Every time she gets wind of graffiti in the bathrooms, out she goes from her office to the bathroom with a camera. She prefers strong photographic evidence. Best for when the artist is caught and brought in.
To our right in a line is the small cubbyhole-like room where they keep the brooms for sweeping after brunch and lunch, all the litter that never found the way to the garbage cans. After that, the side entrance to the MPR and the door to its left is to get into the kitchen. Tight space in that kitchen. There's no proper cafeteria in this school. The kids eat outside during brunch and lunch. When I was in 11th and 12th grade at Hollywood Hills High School, I remember that there was a cafeteria, but never used it. I preferred one of the benches outside, with a book.
Before we go where I want us to be, since the sun is beginning to noticeably set, let's stand right here, in front of these three long steps, leading up to what sometimes serves as an outdoor stage area. Most of the time, kids sit in that area, eating lunch. This wide rectangle of grass in front of us is called the quad. To the left over there is one pathway with classrooms on either side, in the middle are a set of classrooms and to the right are more classrooms. The office, if you face to the right, is that set of double doors right there, right where that golf cart is parked and further down is the library and my dad's classroom.
We'll walk past the middle section of classrooms since it'll get us faster to where we have to be for this. There's science teachers, English teachers, history teachers, and other teachers spread out all over. Don't worry about that open door. That custodian doesn't even see us. I haven't been here in so long as a substitute campus supervisor that I don't think they'd recognize me at first glance.
Yes, right through that small gate. The cars that usually park alongside this sidewalk are long gone. This is where I went to all the time when I was a substitute campus supervisor. I'd bring a book and if the radio was quiet, no calls for students to be escorted to the office, I would sit here and read. This is where I discovered Nero Wolfe in Fer-de-Lance. I'm him in being content with not going out at all. I think there were two or three other books I read during the time of my temporary work, but I don't remember what they were.
Now, to this fence right here. Stand right there. See that? That set of houses pressed against that lonely foothill? Now look to your right. Just a road leading into and out of this one area. That's it. Yes, it was surprising to me too at first. I couldn't imagine anyone living in such isolation, but they do. Not to be bothered by anyone. I bet there's not even a homeowner's association because they probably take care of things by themselves. No need to consort with neighbors on any matter. I've watched cars drive out and drive in during the mornings and sometimes there are plumbing trucks and delivery trucks. The usual assortment of vehicles for a given day, just more noticeable in this microcosm.
In the daytime, there's far less movement. But I'm curious about the movement in the nighttime. By now I'm sure two or three people in this neighborhood have come home. I'm sure the rest are on the way or they've already come home by the time we've come here and have already gone back out with wives and family, if that. For those that are still at home, I wonder if they're going out later, if there's any shopping to do, or a restaurant they've wanted to try, or a movie tonight that warrants breaching those crowds. Two movie theaters here only: Edwards Valencia 12 and Edwards Canyon Country 10.
If you want to sit for a minute back there on that sidewalk, that's fine. Or if you want to see what this view looks like from other vantage points, that's fine too. To me, this is a Friday night. Later, maybe, we'll go down there and see what the school looks like from down there, see if it's easy to spot. I should think it is. When I first saw these houses, I wondered why anyone would want to live below a school. It's similar to when I wondered why anyone would want to live in those houses overlooking one of the parking lots at College of the Canyons. But in the case of these houses, it's quiet, as you see.
I was curious, that's why. I saw these houses during the day, sat there, sometimes ignoring calls from the radio because I wanted to finish a chapter in whatever book I was reading, or I was watching a delivery truck back out from that cul-de-sac. Sometimes a water delivery truck stops by. You see, on various websites devoted to the Santa Clarita Valley, the same names appear. And they all seem to espouse the idea that this valley is a community. It's not. Only they're the community. Besides them, I think there are probably 100 or 200 more like them, but that's it. This valley is 275,000 people. Most don't care about the machinations at City Hall or those trying unsuccessfully to run for a seat on the City Council, or any of the programs City Hall tries to promote. Most, I think, don't want to live in Los Angeles, so they live here. They don't mind commuting every day to L.A. On the weekends, they'll go to certain parts for whatever they want. But they live here because they don't want the pressure of Los Angeles, and that's perfectly understandable. But a community? No. Just a number of people with the same zealous beliefs to spout off about as often as possible. To me, this valley has always been the backwoods of Los Angeles. But this kind of hidden-away neighborhood has always fascinated me. What those rooting and hooting for Santa Clarita have never understood is that there's no overall community, as they'd like to be. There's only sub-communities. Neighborhoods, mutual interests, but nothing with such togetherness for everybody. And that's fine. This seems like the kind of valley to have that. The San Fernando Valley is even more spread out than this and it's hard to imagine even sub-communities existing, outside of the porn industry there.
Ah, there we go. Two cars pulling out. Italian restaurant? A movie? Some supermarket shopping? Maybe the Valencia Town Center Mall, though I could never understand why. That BJ's restaurant, maybe. But that mall has no vitality. Every other store touts clothing, and the bookstore closed long ago. That's my favorite store, which may be why I've never been keen on going to that mall often. There's nothing there to my taste. Compared to the malls in Moreno Valley and elsewhere, our mall is made up of nothing special or worthy of repeat visits.
To me, this is one of the rare spots. If you pass by enough tract housing as you drive by other areas, there's no imagination to it. There's nothing to consider about the people who live there. But there are a few stories remaining for the writers who look for them, such as here. I've always wondered if there's one resident who sits on his driveway in a patio lounge chair, just looking up at the night sky. Living right next to that foothill, there's less lights, so certainly the view has to be better than it is here with these lights on behind us.
Quiet tonight. No other cars pulling out. Guess it's a night in for most of these people. Seems reasonable. They've seen enough road during the week, in the early morning and in the late afternoon, so why would they want even more road? Seems like the only other time they would is on a vacation to somewhere. Tivo catch up, book catch up, seems like better ideas than spending more money than necessary and perhaps regretting it later. Plus there's also the Farmer's Market at College of the Canyons in the morning. Every Saturday. Or Saturday is simply the better day to run necessary errands. You start in the morning, you get home in the late afternoon or the early evening, and the trunk's filled with things from the supermarket, from Target, from Wal-Mart, wherever what one needs can be found and less money can be spent. Sundays...well, it's football season, isn't it? Or nearing football season?
It's peaceful here. That's why I've always liked it. It's away from all the other noise of the world. For me, it was away from the noise of the schoolday. I only really worked at my job when it was brunch and lunchtime later. All the kids are out in force then and supervision is necessary. Otherwise, why overextend yourself? Didn't do much for me when I was here. But as long as I got that spot behind us and a book to spend some of the day reading, I was happy. And unlike when I worked futilely at The Signal, I took no work home with me when I left for the day. I made sure my timecard was filled out and I left. The little left of the afternoon and the coming evening were all mine.
Time to go, I guess. I'm always reluctant to leave this. Oh, I've got other places to go, just not right now. Yet, I know that I probably shouldn't spend the rest of my evening here. You're probably tiring of it too. Nothing else to see. Salads being tossed in kitchens, lasagna being put into the oven, garlic bread being made, steaks sizzling in pans. That's a good idea, actually. Something to eat. I'm tempted to take you over to that barbecue restaurant I mentioned, but I think BJ's feels right for tonight. They have their own beers, if you feel inclined, their own root beer too. Have you ever tried a Pizookie? Nothing to shout about from the top of Samurai Summit at Six Flags Magic Mountain, but it feels like the right kind of dessert for right now. Have whatever you like. A steak, one of their nicely made sandwiches, a salad if you like. I'm buying.
Yes, here we are! Let me park in my dad's spot in the third row farthest from this awe-inspiring view. Good. Ok, out we go.
Closer to the fence now. Look at that. All those lights. When we moved here six years ago, I never imagined any part of the Santa Clarita Valley could look this beautiful. I imagined so with parts of L.A., such as the skyline, the inside of Union Station, the area surrounding Staples Center, the Walt Disney Concert Hall. That was all confirmed for me over time. But this view, this constantly delivers. Just imagine all the neighborhoods, all the small stores, all the big-box stores within all that you're seeing. I've never tried to learn exactly what areas we're looking at. Not that it reduces the potential for imagination for me, thinking about what those people under those lights might be doing at this moment, but it never seemed necessary in all the time I've lived in this valley. I'm not sure if one of those clusters might be the shopping center where Big Lots is, as well as the groomer we once took our dogs to. There's also a barbecue restaurant there suitable for a once-in-a-while visit. We don't go to Los Angeles every Friday night to find something to do, not with trying to keep the miles low on our PT Cruiser so we can have those miles when we're driving around Las Vegas and Henderson, exploring further and finding the house we want when it comes time to move there. I like it here for Friday nights anyway. All of the valley feels hushed. It's as if it acknowledges the stresses of the past week for its population and adopts a feeling that adds to the relaxation of the residents, indeed if those residents feel like relaxing. Most do, I'm sure.
Now, to get onto the campus. I'm hoping the custodians are about in various classrooms, cleaning. Here we go, past the Multi-Purpose Room, or MPR, as they call it. There's a stage in there, but hardly used for anything. No plays, no musical performances. It would cost more to have anything here in the evening, and the district doesn't have a whole lot of money.
There are two doors there as we approach this gate to our right. The one directly in front of us leads into the gym. The one to its right is where the custodians hang out, also where all their supplies are. It's locked, so they must be around the school, but look at this! This heavy, black-painted gate is ajar. There's enough room to get in.
In front of us is the courtyard. This is where the kids gather every morning. That door to our immediate right is where they keep an ice cream machine, pretzel storage unit, and I think there's something for nacho cheese. There's also lockers for the campus supervisors, and a desk. To our left are the boys and girls bathrooms. One of the assistant principals has an obsession with graffiti in them and it's a good obsession, but it also involves a camera. Every time she gets wind of graffiti in the bathrooms, out she goes from her office to the bathroom with a camera. She prefers strong photographic evidence. Best for when the artist is caught and brought in.
To our right in a line is the small cubbyhole-like room where they keep the brooms for sweeping after brunch and lunch, all the litter that never found the way to the garbage cans. After that, the side entrance to the MPR and the door to its left is to get into the kitchen. Tight space in that kitchen. There's no proper cafeteria in this school. The kids eat outside during brunch and lunch. When I was in 11th and 12th grade at Hollywood Hills High School, I remember that there was a cafeteria, but never used it. I preferred one of the benches outside, with a book.
Before we go where I want us to be, since the sun is beginning to noticeably set, let's stand right here, in front of these three long steps, leading up to what sometimes serves as an outdoor stage area. Most of the time, kids sit in that area, eating lunch. This wide rectangle of grass in front of us is called the quad. To the left over there is one pathway with classrooms on either side, in the middle are a set of classrooms and to the right are more classrooms. The office, if you face to the right, is that set of double doors right there, right where that golf cart is parked and further down is the library and my dad's classroom.
We'll walk past the middle section of classrooms since it'll get us faster to where we have to be for this. There's science teachers, English teachers, history teachers, and other teachers spread out all over. Don't worry about that open door. That custodian doesn't even see us. I haven't been here in so long as a substitute campus supervisor that I don't think they'd recognize me at first glance.
Yes, right through that small gate. The cars that usually park alongside this sidewalk are long gone. This is where I went to all the time when I was a substitute campus supervisor. I'd bring a book and if the radio was quiet, no calls for students to be escorted to the office, I would sit here and read. This is where I discovered Nero Wolfe in Fer-de-Lance. I'm him in being content with not going out at all. I think there were two or three other books I read during the time of my temporary work, but I don't remember what they were.
Now, to this fence right here. Stand right there. See that? That set of houses pressed against that lonely foothill? Now look to your right. Just a road leading into and out of this one area. That's it. Yes, it was surprising to me too at first. I couldn't imagine anyone living in such isolation, but they do. Not to be bothered by anyone. I bet there's not even a homeowner's association because they probably take care of things by themselves. No need to consort with neighbors on any matter. I've watched cars drive out and drive in during the mornings and sometimes there are plumbing trucks and delivery trucks. The usual assortment of vehicles for a given day, just more noticeable in this microcosm.
In the daytime, there's far less movement. But I'm curious about the movement in the nighttime. By now I'm sure two or three people in this neighborhood have come home. I'm sure the rest are on the way or they've already come home by the time we've come here and have already gone back out with wives and family, if that. For those that are still at home, I wonder if they're going out later, if there's any shopping to do, or a restaurant they've wanted to try, or a movie tonight that warrants breaching those crowds. Two movie theaters here only: Edwards Valencia 12 and Edwards Canyon Country 10.
If you want to sit for a minute back there on that sidewalk, that's fine. Or if you want to see what this view looks like from other vantage points, that's fine too. To me, this is a Friday night. Later, maybe, we'll go down there and see what the school looks like from down there, see if it's easy to spot. I should think it is. When I first saw these houses, I wondered why anyone would want to live below a school. It's similar to when I wondered why anyone would want to live in those houses overlooking one of the parking lots at College of the Canyons. But in the case of these houses, it's quiet, as you see.
I was curious, that's why. I saw these houses during the day, sat there, sometimes ignoring calls from the radio because I wanted to finish a chapter in whatever book I was reading, or I was watching a delivery truck back out from that cul-de-sac. Sometimes a water delivery truck stops by. You see, on various websites devoted to the Santa Clarita Valley, the same names appear. And they all seem to espouse the idea that this valley is a community. It's not. Only they're the community. Besides them, I think there are probably 100 or 200 more like them, but that's it. This valley is 275,000 people. Most don't care about the machinations at City Hall or those trying unsuccessfully to run for a seat on the City Council, or any of the programs City Hall tries to promote. Most, I think, don't want to live in Los Angeles, so they live here. They don't mind commuting every day to L.A. On the weekends, they'll go to certain parts for whatever they want. But they live here because they don't want the pressure of Los Angeles, and that's perfectly understandable. But a community? No. Just a number of people with the same zealous beliefs to spout off about as often as possible. To me, this valley has always been the backwoods of Los Angeles. But this kind of hidden-away neighborhood has always fascinated me. What those rooting and hooting for Santa Clarita have never understood is that there's no overall community, as they'd like to be. There's only sub-communities. Neighborhoods, mutual interests, but nothing with such togetherness for everybody. And that's fine. This seems like the kind of valley to have that. The San Fernando Valley is even more spread out than this and it's hard to imagine even sub-communities existing, outside of the porn industry there.
Ah, there we go. Two cars pulling out. Italian restaurant? A movie? Some supermarket shopping? Maybe the Valencia Town Center Mall, though I could never understand why. That BJ's restaurant, maybe. But that mall has no vitality. Every other store touts clothing, and the bookstore closed long ago. That's my favorite store, which may be why I've never been keen on going to that mall often. There's nothing there to my taste. Compared to the malls in Moreno Valley and elsewhere, our mall is made up of nothing special or worthy of repeat visits.
To me, this is one of the rare spots. If you pass by enough tract housing as you drive by other areas, there's no imagination to it. There's nothing to consider about the people who live there. But there are a few stories remaining for the writers who look for them, such as here. I've always wondered if there's one resident who sits on his driveway in a patio lounge chair, just looking up at the night sky. Living right next to that foothill, there's less lights, so certainly the view has to be better than it is here with these lights on behind us.
Quiet tonight. No other cars pulling out. Guess it's a night in for most of these people. Seems reasonable. They've seen enough road during the week, in the early morning and in the late afternoon, so why would they want even more road? Seems like the only other time they would is on a vacation to somewhere. Tivo catch up, book catch up, seems like better ideas than spending more money than necessary and perhaps regretting it later. Plus there's also the Farmer's Market at College of the Canyons in the morning. Every Saturday. Or Saturday is simply the better day to run necessary errands. You start in the morning, you get home in the late afternoon or the early evening, and the trunk's filled with things from the supermarket, from Target, from Wal-Mart, wherever what one needs can be found and less money can be spent. Sundays...well, it's football season, isn't it? Or nearing football season?
It's peaceful here. That's why I've always liked it. It's away from all the other noise of the world. For me, it was away from the noise of the schoolday. I only really worked at my job when it was brunch and lunchtime later. All the kids are out in force then and supervision is necessary. Otherwise, why overextend yourself? Didn't do much for me when I was here. But as long as I got that spot behind us and a book to spend some of the day reading, I was happy. And unlike when I worked futilely at The Signal, I took no work home with me when I left for the day. I made sure my timecard was filled out and I left. The little left of the afternoon and the coming evening were all mine.
Time to go, I guess. I'm always reluctant to leave this. Oh, I've got other places to go, just not right now. Yet, I know that I probably shouldn't spend the rest of my evening here. You're probably tiring of it too. Nothing else to see. Salads being tossed in kitchens, lasagna being put into the oven, garlic bread being made, steaks sizzling in pans. That's a good idea, actually. Something to eat. I'm tempted to take you over to that barbecue restaurant I mentioned, but I think BJ's feels right for tonight. They have their own beers, if you feel inclined, their own root beer too. Have you ever tried a Pizookie? Nothing to shout about from the top of Samurai Summit at Six Flags Magic Mountain, but it feels like the right kind of dessert for right now. Have whatever you like. A steak, one of their nicely made sandwiches, a salad if you like. I'm buying.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Little Pleasures That Make Any Given Day More Inviting
- Twining's Cold-Brew Lady Grey tea. My favorite kind, now also sold in cold-brew bags. Very convenient, particularly during the summer months, though this came out after summer was over. Still, I love having it and will probably keep buying it even in winter, provided they still stock it in winter. And why not? I'm sure some people eat ice cream in winter.
- Hungry-Man fried chicken TV dinner. Jeopardy! comes on, and I go to the dining room table (which is merely the right side of the living room if you're sitting on the couch against the wall on the left, if you're sitting at my place at the dining room table), and there is microwaved satisfaction, three pieces of fried chicken with some crunchiness from the skin. I love turning each piece over, seeing what they offer, which is big enough for me. To me, it's hearty, good-natured simplicity. There's mashed potatoes and corn, and that's easy. The corn goes right into the mashed potatoes, stuffed right in there. The brownie's always been a downer to me. Not that I don't like it. It's chocolate and that says enough. But it always felt to me like they should attempt a cobbler. Apple, peach, just something. Looking at reviews of the meals online, this one had an apple-cranberry crumb dessert in 2007. Now it's a Duncan Hines brownie and I could see why they went with that because first, there's a deal to be made in product placement, and since Duncan Hines makes the brownies, that's one less thing the company has to make and it saves them money. Maybe a cobbler would be asking too much. Besides, whomever pops this in a microwave either doesn't have much time to think about what a better alternative dessert would be, or doesn't care, because it's the end of the day and there's some sitcoms coming on to carry a stressed mind away from the source of that day's stress. I wasn't raised in the true South, but in Florida, I grew up on grits and cobbler. It's just how I think.
- Tortilla chips - This only cropped up again recently. My three favorite foods are fettucine alfredo, quesadillas, and nachos. Fettucine alfredo is always at the top. Doesn't matter if it's with chicken or without. Quesadillas and nachos always fight over the second spot. If my sister makes quesadillas, then nachos have to sit in third place. If the nachos are Cheesecake Factory nachos, then quesadillas have a long way down after they've been pushed. I got into tortilla chips again just to have the basic beginning of nachos. I tried Trader Joe's yellow, organic tortilla rounds and those were very salty. I liked them, but I'd also forgotten that tortilla chips can be had without the salt. In getting tortilla chips from Ralph's (some anonymous brand for $2), I forgot that again, but intend to get them without salt next time. Maybe some salsa too. To me, the crunch of a tortilla chip is far more convincing than that of a potato chip, which always sounds too busy. The crunch of a tortilla chip is decisive. One bite and it's loud.
My pleasures are not only food. Those are temporary moments. Live the moment and then it's gone, being churned into goop and glop and energy and more glop in places unseen, and designs unknown, at least until the next time you enter the bathroom.
There's also:
- Books. General, I know. I love opening different books and finding voices from all around the world. I'm reading "The Tracey Fragments" right now (because it's due again this Sunday (my local library's also open every Sunday from 1-5 p.m.) and I've a feeling someone else has it on hold), and the author, Maureen Medved, is Canadian. I love reading writers from the South, I love reading David Sedaris, I love when a voice emerges that you never imagined could be possible in words. I love disappearing for hours at a time into paragraphs, not at all intimidated by there possibly not being paragraph breaks for pages at a time. I just like to disappear into other words for a while. Not necessarily words. Sometimes a semi-colon in the middle of a wide-ranging thought is enough for me.
- Being out on the patio at 2 a.m. Just to stand outside, look over the wall at the community pool and the still spa, the few lights still on on the mountainside with dozens of houses, the uniform plant life around the area, the trucks parked in the neighborhood lot that I can see from my vantage point, imagining that I own them for those few hours, and especially the stars, which, with less lights now than there were at the condominium in South Florida, I can see more clearly and can easily make out the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. And sometimes I just like to connect the stars with no thought toward constellations.
More of my little pleasures soon.
- Hungry-Man fried chicken TV dinner. Jeopardy! comes on, and I go to the dining room table (which is merely the right side of the living room if you're sitting on the couch against the wall on the left, if you're sitting at my place at the dining room table), and there is microwaved satisfaction, three pieces of fried chicken with some crunchiness from the skin. I love turning each piece over, seeing what they offer, which is big enough for me. To me, it's hearty, good-natured simplicity. There's mashed potatoes and corn, and that's easy. The corn goes right into the mashed potatoes, stuffed right in there. The brownie's always been a downer to me. Not that I don't like it. It's chocolate and that says enough. But it always felt to me like they should attempt a cobbler. Apple, peach, just something. Looking at reviews of the meals online, this one had an apple-cranberry crumb dessert in 2007. Now it's a Duncan Hines brownie and I could see why they went with that because first, there's a deal to be made in product placement, and since Duncan Hines makes the brownies, that's one less thing the company has to make and it saves them money. Maybe a cobbler would be asking too much. Besides, whomever pops this in a microwave either doesn't have much time to think about what a better alternative dessert would be, or doesn't care, because it's the end of the day and there's some sitcoms coming on to carry a stressed mind away from the source of that day's stress. I wasn't raised in the true South, but in Florida, I grew up on grits and cobbler. It's just how I think.
- Tortilla chips - This only cropped up again recently. My three favorite foods are fettucine alfredo, quesadillas, and nachos. Fettucine alfredo is always at the top. Doesn't matter if it's with chicken or without. Quesadillas and nachos always fight over the second spot. If my sister makes quesadillas, then nachos have to sit in third place. If the nachos are Cheesecake Factory nachos, then quesadillas have a long way down after they've been pushed. I got into tortilla chips again just to have the basic beginning of nachos. I tried Trader Joe's yellow, organic tortilla rounds and those were very salty. I liked them, but I'd also forgotten that tortilla chips can be had without the salt. In getting tortilla chips from Ralph's (some anonymous brand for $2), I forgot that again, but intend to get them without salt next time. Maybe some salsa too. To me, the crunch of a tortilla chip is far more convincing than that of a potato chip, which always sounds too busy. The crunch of a tortilla chip is decisive. One bite and it's loud.
My pleasures are not only food. Those are temporary moments. Live the moment and then it's gone, being churned into goop and glop and energy and more glop in places unseen, and designs unknown, at least until the next time you enter the bathroom.
There's also:
- Books. General, I know. I love opening different books and finding voices from all around the world. I'm reading "The Tracey Fragments" right now (because it's due again this Sunday (my local library's also open every Sunday from 1-5 p.m.) and I've a feeling someone else has it on hold), and the author, Maureen Medved, is Canadian. I love reading writers from the South, I love reading David Sedaris, I love when a voice emerges that you never imagined could be possible in words. I love disappearing for hours at a time into paragraphs, not at all intimidated by there possibly not being paragraph breaks for pages at a time. I just like to disappear into other words for a while. Not necessarily words. Sometimes a semi-colon in the middle of a wide-ranging thought is enough for me.
- Being out on the patio at 2 a.m. Just to stand outside, look over the wall at the community pool and the still spa, the few lights still on on the mountainside with dozens of houses, the uniform plant life around the area, the trucks parked in the neighborhood lot that I can see from my vantage point, imagining that I own them for those few hours, and especially the stars, which, with less lights now than there were at the condominium in South Florida, I can see more clearly and can easily make out the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. And sometimes I just like to connect the stars with no thought toward constellations.
More of my little pleasures soon.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
"I Want to Flyyyyy Awaaaaay; Yeah, Yeah, Yeaaaaahhhhhh."
Chippy and Chloe, two of our finches, their kind wasn't meant to be caged, or they hadn't been sufficiently domesticated when we got Chippy, who was a baby then, and who didn't mind being in a cage. He didn't have a clear sense of his world yet. Feather-growing and getting stronger were more crucial.
Over the past few weeks, Chippy was more vocal than ever, nipping at Chloe, she nipping back, squawking and squawking when they fought. It scared our dog Kitty (part miniature pinscher, part terrier), who would walk low past their cage (which was between my finch Jules on the right, and my sister's finch Ducky on the left) into one of our rooms because she didn't like the violent noise.
It was apparent even months ago that we had to do something, but it didn't go as far as it did until today. When I woke up this afternoon, I went out to the living room and found Chippy and Chloe's cage gone. Mom, who had found Chippy in a pet store and bought Chloe some time after, had gone to the patio in the morning, opened the cage door, and they bolted into nature. Mom was still broken up about this when I had found her in the living room, because she had also considered possibly finding Chloe a new home, and keeping Chippy, who was her favorite. But these finches' nature could not be quelled. They belonged to the wild. They had obviously been captured from the wild and brought to whichever pet store Mom had found them at. Despite having a moderate number of birds over the years, I'm no expert on birds or breeds of birds, but I posit this: If someone had intended to domesticate whatever breed of finch Chippy and Chloe were, it would take some generations of hatchings. The first group would get used to being in a cage, if that, the second group would be a bit shaky, but would become accustomed, and I think only when the third group came along would you have a breed that was used to that life. When we cleaned the cages of Chippy and Chloe, Ducky, and Jules, we wouldn't have any trouble removing the cage from the tray when we'd begin cleaning Ducky's and Jules's cages. We'd lift and set the cages on the dining room table with newspaper on it, and they'd sit on the perches while they were being lifted and set, no problem.
But with Chippy and Chloe, we needed the portable fan to keep them inside. We turned it on, made sure they were sufficiently planted against the other side of the cage, lifted quickly and set it down quickly. Truly, that should have been the first indication that they didn't belong in a cage. But how were we to know? These were Mom's birds. She wanted them, so there they were in this row of cages
Now that middle cage is gone and there's a direct path for Kitty to her pink couch, set against the glass covering of the fireplace we never use. Her stuffed dogs are there, and so's her Abby Cadabby doll.
Personally, Chippy and Chloe's swift departure has not left me as torn as Mom, but I do wonder where they are. I hope they're safe, I hope Chippy's incredibly happy now, and I hope that they've found another group of wild finches to quickly ingratiate themselves with, maybe have a few little ones of their own. I don't know if they were that way in their cage, but why not in their natural habitat? And I know they might not even be together, that maybe they flew their separate ways, but hopefully they found something. I went out onto the patio an hour and a half ago, looking out at the community pool, looking further out at the trees and the dark mountainside rife with houses side by side, and I thought about where they might be. I hope in a small way that maybe they'll fly back our way, sit on the ledge of our patio, just letting us know that they're ok. But being that they were in a cage for all the time they were with us, I doubt they know the way back here. Like Ducky, Chippy and Chloe were never near a window in their cage. Maybe they saw things from the side of their cage, but not fully.
I'm not sure I really miss them. Granted, the routine of refilling the birds' water dishes is taking less time now with one less to refill, and I only have to refill two food dispensers now, but for the time they were here, there was a comfort to me in having them there. There was a routine to which I was contributing, giving them what they needed, and it felt good. Ducky and Jules are still here, so I still have it, but they contributed a little bit to the centering of my world in times when it was trying. It still is, of course, life always is, but they were there and I appreciated that.
But we had to make a decision. We didn't want Kitty to be scared from them fighting, and she, to be honest, is far more important to us than Chippy and Chloe. Being that she was a rescue dog from Alaska (abandoned in the extreme cold and vicious when first found; on her first night with us after we picked her up from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, she slept alone on the couch, but she soon got used to us and now she is one of the great good things in our world, along with our other dog Tigger), she's still jittery from many things, despite living with us for a number of years now, and this was one of them.
Strangely, my finch Jules was astoundingly vocal today. He actually jumped to the bottom of his cage, took out a piece of the litter and began playing with it, hopping up and down on his perch and then all around his cage, tweeting incessantly. He never did that during all the time Chippy and Chloe were with us. Mom thought he was a "couch bird," but it turns out that he must have been just as bothered by Chippy and Chloe's arguing as we eventually were.
I won't forget Chippy and Chloe. They were a part of our years here in Southern California. But you can't repress someone's true nature. Chippy and Chloe knew exactly where they were going when Mom pushed up that cage door: Out into the world that they knew so well, even if they didn't know this particular area. It's air, it's trees, it's the promise of other birds or whatever they might have been looking for in their little lives. I also face the reality that something might have happened to them already, a bigger bird snatching up one or both of them, but that's life anyway. What happens, happens. We just have to go where we feel we need to go.
Thanks you two. You did ok by me.
Over the past few weeks, Chippy was more vocal than ever, nipping at Chloe, she nipping back, squawking and squawking when they fought. It scared our dog Kitty (part miniature pinscher, part terrier), who would walk low past their cage (which was between my finch Jules on the right, and my sister's finch Ducky on the left) into one of our rooms because she didn't like the violent noise.
It was apparent even months ago that we had to do something, but it didn't go as far as it did until today. When I woke up this afternoon, I went out to the living room and found Chippy and Chloe's cage gone. Mom, who had found Chippy in a pet store and bought Chloe some time after, had gone to the patio in the morning, opened the cage door, and they bolted into nature. Mom was still broken up about this when I had found her in the living room, because she had also considered possibly finding Chloe a new home, and keeping Chippy, who was her favorite. But these finches' nature could not be quelled. They belonged to the wild. They had obviously been captured from the wild and brought to whichever pet store Mom had found them at. Despite having a moderate number of birds over the years, I'm no expert on birds or breeds of birds, but I posit this: If someone had intended to domesticate whatever breed of finch Chippy and Chloe were, it would take some generations of hatchings. The first group would get used to being in a cage, if that, the second group would be a bit shaky, but would become accustomed, and I think only when the third group came along would you have a breed that was used to that life. When we cleaned the cages of Chippy and Chloe, Ducky, and Jules, we wouldn't have any trouble removing the cage from the tray when we'd begin cleaning Ducky's and Jules's cages. We'd lift and set the cages on the dining room table with newspaper on it, and they'd sit on the perches while they were being lifted and set, no problem.
But with Chippy and Chloe, we needed the portable fan to keep them inside. We turned it on, made sure they were sufficiently planted against the other side of the cage, lifted quickly and set it down quickly. Truly, that should have been the first indication that they didn't belong in a cage. But how were we to know? These were Mom's birds. She wanted them, so there they were in this row of cages
Now that middle cage is gone and there's a direct path for Kitty to her pink couch, set against the glass covering of the fireplace we never use. Her stuffed dogs are there, and so's her Abby Cadabby doll.
Personally, Chippy and Chloe's swift departure has not left me as torn as Mom, but I do wonder where they are. I hope they're safe, I hope Chippy's incredibly happy now, and I hope that they've found another group of wild finches to quickly ingratiate themselves with, maybe have a few little ones of their own. I don't know if they were that way in their cage, but why not in their natural habitat? And I know they might not even be together, that maybe they flew their separate ways, but hopefully they found something. I went out onto the patio an hour and a half ago, looking out at the community pool, looking further out at the trees and the dark mountainside rife with houses side by side, and I thought about where they might be. I hope in a small way that maybe they'll fly back our way, sit on the ledge of our patio, just letting us know that they're ok. But being that they were in a cage for all the time they were with us, I doubt they know the way back here. Like Ducky, Chippy and Chloe were never near a window in their cage. Maybe they saw things from the side of their cage, but not fully.
I'm not sure I really miss them. Granted, the routine of refilling the birds' water dishes is taking less time now with one less to refill, and I only have to refill two food dispensers now, but for the time they were here, there was a comfort to me in having them there. There was a routine to which I was contributing, giving them what they needed, and it felt good. Ducky and Jules are still here, so I still have it, but they contributed a little bit to the centering of my world in times when it was trying. It still is, of course, life always is, but they were there and I appreciated that.
But we had to make a decision. We didn't want Kitty to be scared from them fighting, and she, to be honest, is far more important to us than Chippy and Chloe. Being that she was a rescue dog from Alaska (abandoned in the extreme cold and vicious when first found; on her first night with us after we picked her up from Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, she slept alone on the couch, but she soon got used to us and now she is one of the great good things in our world, along with our other dog Tigger), she's still jittery from many things, despite living with us for a number of years now, and this was one of them.
Strangely, my finch Jules was astoundingly vocal today. He actually jumped to the bottom of his cage, took out a piece of the litter and began playing with it, hopping up and down on his perch and then all around his cage, tweeting incessantly. He never did that during all the time Chippy and Chloe were with us. Mom thought he was a "couch bird," but it turns out that he must have been just as bothered by Chippy and Chloe's arguing as we eventually were.
I won't forget Chippy and Chloe. They were a part of our years here in Southern California. But you can't repress someone's true nature. Chippy and Chloe knew exactly where they were going when Mom pushed up that cage door: Out into the world that they knew so well, even if they didn't know this particular area. It's air, it's trees, it's the promise of other birds or whatever they might have been looking for in their little lives. I also face the reality that something might have happened to them already, a bigger bird snatching up one or both of them, but that's life anyway. What happens, happens. We just have to go where we feel we need to go.
Thanks you two. You did ok by me.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Jesus. What the Hell's Going On, Brain?
A suicide? In my dream? The near-heartsickness of yesterday's dream was harrowing enough, but I think this topped it. I had become enamored of a girl I met in a high-end bookstore, full of rare editions and tables filled with people talking about all kinds of literature. I spotted her at one of the tables, but it's still strange to me how I can't remember any pertinent details about her. I think the most I remember is that she was a brunette. She was also apparently a criminal, the crime unknown to me, yet totally familiar to the heavily-armed law enforcement tracking her that I encountered later on.
She kept eluding my grasp and my attempt at a conversation. I don't know exactly what I liked about her, but I wanted her, and so I followed her, running when she attempted to flee the law enforcement that had caught up to her at an apartment complex. She ran to the roof, I was on the third floor in a hallway, and I saw her jump from there, quickly passing from the roof, right by my eyes on the third, then the second, first, and blammo. Right on top of a car, smashing the roof, killing her. I remember running to the car, totally devastated at this tragic outcome, seeing only black pants and high-heel boots splayed out.
What the hell has my subconscious been taking in lately? This is the saddest any of my dreams have ever been. Mostly, I'm at some variation on Walt Disney World. It's not WDW as you know it, but I know it is, despite different rides and merchandise. Or else my dreams are about mutual attraction and the killer internal buzzing from that, as it was with yesterday's dream. This dream is totally unfamiliar to me, and I hope not to have it again. I don't even have nightmares, but I think this is as close as I'll get.
She kept eluding my grasp and my attempt at a conversation. I don't know exactly what I liked about her, but I wanted her, and so I followed her, running when she attempted to flee the law enforcement that had caught up to her at an apartment complex. She ran to the roof, I was on the third floor in a hallway, and I saw her jump from there, quickly passing from the roof, right by my eyes on the third, then the second, first, and blammo. Right on top of a car, smashing the roof, killing her. I remember running to the car, totally devastated at this tragic outcome, seeing only black pants and high-heel boots splayed out.
What the hell has my subconscious been taking in lately? This is the saddest any of my dreams have ever been. Mostly, I'm at some variation on Walt Disney World. It's not WDW as you know it, but I know it is, despite different rides and merchandise. Or else my dreams are about mutual attraction and the killer internal buzzing from that, as it was with yesterday's dream. This dream is totally unfamiliar to me, and I hope not to have it again. I don't even have nightmares, but I think this is as close as I'll get.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
To the Girl Walking Her Dog with a Multi-Colored Umbrella in Hand
(This isn't in the vein of those Craigslist Missed Connections ads, because this girl is nearby, though some height up from me, and there may be another time that she comes down my way when I'm outside again. Plus, there's no way she'd come upon this entry since she doesn't even know who I am, but there are some thoughts that I feel compelled to write as if she might find it.)
I finally had a dream I'd been wanting for weeks, one where I was clear of mind and emotions and knew exactly what I was saying and feeling like it was right. Basically, the person I'd like to be, but only have the courage to be in my dreams so far.
I was in some kind of a classroom, though it wasn't the kind typical of education. Something was playing on a screen and there were people around, but it seemed like so much was going on at once. Kathryn Joosten, who played Mrs. Landingham on The West Wing was sitting next to me and I thanked her profusely for her invaluable contribution to a TV series that's still my favorite, even with it having been off the air for three years.
Then, a beautiful black girl walked in and took a seat in the vertical row of desks next to mine and there was a spark between us. She felt it, because she looked at me again after she'd passed by me. I was intrigued by her because she walked with such self-confidence. She was sure of herself and the world around her and I liked that. There didn't seem to be any mucking about with her, and that's what I like.
I'm not sure if she and I talked while near each other. We might have, though I believe that based on what came next, it was brief. It may have been an introduction, it may have been a comment on the day so far, it may have just been a simple hello. But I remember that the time had come to leave that classroom and she had come up to me hoping for a more expansive conversation. I think I brushed her off indifferently, but I don't know why. My face fell when I saw her rush out with disappointment on her face and she might have been near tears. I rushed out of the classroom, leaving behind my backpack, my wallet, my cellphone. I never do that, anywhere.
I caught up to her, stopped her and first told her that I left everything behind in that classroom to quickly catch up to her, and I never do that. Then I explained straight out why I had done what I did: I was 25 years old and hadn't had a girlfriend since I was 14. I wasn't sure how to act, I wasn't sure what to do. This surprised her, but also relieved her in showing that it wasn't her personally that made me act like I did. I liked her very much too. Unfortunately at that moment, I woke up. But in that dream, I felt like my heart was soaring when I saw her, like I could make this work. It felt like there was nothing inside my body dragging me down. I could have floated.
And, as if some force of nature had sensed my disappointment in that dream ending abruptly, you were outside, walking past my neighborhood. It was raining and I had just walked both of my dogs because they hadn't been outside since early this morning. I hadn't expected it to rain like it was, thinking that the weather would have held off until early tomorrow morning, as was predicted. But there was the rain, and after seeing the garbage and recycling bin lids open outside, I knew I had to dump the water out of my family's garbage bin (the recycling bin lid was closed), and I had to do it soon.
So I did, right after drying off Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound). I went to the curb and you were coming up the street, holding a multi-colored umbrella (sections of separate colors in a circle), and walking what looked like an unhappy pitbull. I glanced at you and then put the garbage bin on the ground and pulled up the bottom so the water would fall out. I put the bin back on the ground, pulled it back up and quickly closed the lid. I took the recycling bin and began to roll it back to the house. But I stopped. You intrigued me. You looked to be about my height, 5'5" or 5'6", and perhaps my age, or maybe in your late 20s. I hoped you weren't 44 years old, just to pick a random older number. I still don't know, but you looked like you were about as old as me.
You either live in the development right above mine, taking the road up there, or the one at the top of that mountainside with four houses there. After I rolled the recycling bin back into the garage, I went back out for the garbage bin (always an order: recycling bin first and then the garbage bin because it sits next to the garage door), and I saw a piece of your umbrella from where I was standing. Then, I saw you walk back down with your dog, even though it was still raining. Did you sense me looking at you? Were you possibly interested too? Did I idiotically lose yet another chance with yet another girl? If you were coming back down to complain to me about my staring, I apologize. But to see the sight of you walking your dog, with that umbrella that was happier than my own (stripes of dark colors), in noticeable, though not heavily pouring rain, it was inspiring to me. I wonder if you were out with your dog at that time because he (or she) had to go out or you just liked that weather and wanted a reasonable excuse to go outside to experience it. If the rain starts up again later this morning, I don't think I'd go outside to stand in it, even with a proper coat and umbrella. Not that I think I'd look crazy, but there's much work I have to do and I don't think there'd be another sight as enchanting as you. I don't remember seeing your face, but I think with how you were walking, interested in the rain, that I'd easily give it a chance. I don't walk my dogs in the front that often. I use the patio because it's a simulation of the terrain in Las Vegas, so my dogs are used to it when my family and I eventually move there. I didn't want to reveal that, just in case there might be a chance to get to know you and possibly more, but we've been here six years and there may not even be a job for my dad next year as a business education teacher based on how they keep talking about cutting education in this state.
If we meet each other again and talk, and if there's a connection there, I'll be disappointed only because having lived here in Saugus for five years (our first year was in an apartment in Valencia), you might have lived here around the time I moved here, and maybe even earlier, and I could have had more time with you. It would have made the days in this valley far more interesting than they usually are. And if we don't meet again, you've done well as my temporary muse. I wrote this not only to go over the event in my mind again, but also to get mentally limber to continue my share of a book project. Now I want to write that essay on James Dean just for you. I know you'll probably never read it since you don't know me or my name, but what the heck, motivation to write for you is enough for me.
I love the rain, especially after the hot, dry winds this valley endured some weeks ago, so thank you for making a bright day even brighter.
P.S.: If you were actually attracted to a guy wearing a zipped-up, thin black jacket and red sleep pants with the Dr. Pepper logo stamped all over, then I made a huge mistake in not starting a conversation with you.
I finally had a dream I'd been wanting for weeks, one where I was clear of mind and emotions and knew exactly what I was saying and feeling like it was right. Basically, the person I'd like to be, but only have the courage to be in my dreams so far.
I was in some kind of a classroom, though it wasn't the kind typical of education. Something was playing on a screen and there were people around, but it seemed like so much was going on at once. Kathryn Joosten, who played Mrs. Landingham on The West Wing was sitting next to me and I thanked her profusely for her invaluable contribution to a TV series that's still my favorite, even with it having been off the air for three years.
Then, a beautiful black girl walked in and took a seat in the vertical row of desks next to mine and there was a spark between us. She felt it, because she looked at me again after she'd passed by me. I was intrigued by her because she walked with such self-confidence. She was sure of herself and the world around her and I liked that. There didn't seem to be any mucking about with her, and that's what I like.
I'm not sure if she and I talked while near each other. We might have, though I believe that based on what came next, it was brief. It may have been an introduction, it may have been a comment on the day so far, it may have just been a simple hello. But I remember that the time had come to leave that classroom and she had come up to me hoping for a more expansive conversation. I think I brushed her off indifferently, but I don't know why. My face fell when I saw her rush out with disappointment on her face and she might have been near tears. I rushed out of the classroom, leaving behind my backpack, my wallet, my cellphone. I never do that, anywhere.
I caught up to her, stopped her and first told her that I left everything behind in that classroom to quickly catch up to her, and I never do that. Then I explained straight out why I had done what I did: I was 25 years old and hadn't had a girlfriend since I was 14. I wasn't sure how to act, I wasn't sure what to do. This surprised her, but also relieved her in showing that it wasn't her personally that made me act like I did. I liked her very much too. Unfortunately at that moment, I woke up. But in that dream, I felt like my heart was soaring when I saw her, like I could make this work. It felt like there was nothing inside my body dragging me down. I could have floated.
And, as if some force of nature had sensed my disappointment in that dream ending abruptly, you were outside, walking past my neighborhood. It was raining and I had just walked both of my dogs because they hadn't been outside since early this morning. I hadn't expected it to rain like it was, thinking that the weather would have held off until early tomorrow morning, as was predicted. But there was the rain, and after seeing the garbage and recycling bin lids open outside, I knew I had to dump the water out of my family's garbage bin (the recycling bin lid was closed), and I had to do it soon.
So I did, right after drying off Tigger (part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound). I went to the curb and you were coming up the street, holding a multi-colored umbrella (sections of separate colors in a circle), and walking what looked like an unhappy pitbull. I glanced at you and then put the garbage bin on the ground and pulled up the bottom so the water would fall out. I put the bin back on the ground, pulled it back up and quickly closed the lid. I took the recycling bin and began to roll it back to the house. But I stopped. You intrigued me. You looked to be about my height, 5'5" or 5'6", and perhaps my age, or maybe in your late 20s. I hoped you weren't 44 years old, just to pick a random older number. I still don't know, but you looked like you were about as old as me.
You either live in the development right above mine, taking the road up there, or the one at the top of that mountainside with four houses there. After I rolled the recycling bin back into the garage, I went back out for the garbage bin (always an order: recycling bin first and then the garbage bin because it sits next to the garage door), and I saw a piece of your umbrella from where I was standing. Then, I saw you walk back down with your dog, even though it was still raining. Did you sense me looking at you? Were you possibly interested too? Did I idiotically lose yet another chance with yet another girl? If you were coming back down to complain to me about my staring, I apologize. But to see the sight of you walking your dog, with that umbrella that was happier than my own (stripes of dark colors), in noticeable, though not heavily pouring rain, it was inspiring to me. I wonder if you were out with your dog at that time because he (or she) had to go out or you just liked that weather and wanted a reasonable excuse to go outside to experience it. If the rain starts up again later this morning, I don't think I'd go outside to stand in it, even with a proper coat and umbrella. Not that I think I'd look crazy, but there's much work I have to do and I don't think there'd be another sight as enchanting as you. I don't remember seeing your face, but I think with how you were walking, interested in the rain, that I'd easily give it a chance. I don't walk my dogs in the front that often. I use the patio because it's a simulation of the terrain in Las Vegas, so my dogs are used to it when my family and I eventually move there. I didn't want to reveal that, just in case there might be a chance to get to know you and possibly more, but we've been here six years and there may not even be a job for my dad next year as a business education teacher based on how they keep talking about cutting education in this state.
If we meet each other again and talk, and if there's a connection there, I'll be disappointed only because having lived here in Saugus for five years (our first year was in an apartment in Valencia), you might have lived here around the time I moved here, and maybe even earlier, and I could have had more time with you. It would have made the days in this valley far more interesting than they usually are. And if we don't meet again, you've done well as my temporary muse. I wrote this not only to go over the event in my mind again, but also to get mentally limber to continue my share of a book project. Now I want to write that essay on James Dean just for you. I know you'll probably never read it since you don't know me or my name, but what the heck, motivation to write for you is enough for me.
I love the rain, especially after the hot, dry winds this valley endured some weeks ago, so thank you for making a bright day even brighter.
P.S.: If you were actually attracted to a guy wearing a zipped-up, thin black jacket and red sleep pants with the Dr. Pepper logo stamped all over, then I made a huge mistake in not starting a conversation with you.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Ok, It's Probably Time
To balance the sometime-stress of this book project and to have a reason to keep going so I can hopefully finish the majority of the writing by the end of the year, I'm finally going to figure out how to post pictures on here that can be clicked on and maximized. Yes, this is for the titular reason for this blog, to post those library receipts and analyze why people might have checked out what they checked out.
I tried a little bit after I started the blog and thought I'd be content with just having the scanned receipts posted as they were (hoping that you readers would be ok with squinting), but I want them as big as I see pictures on other blogs. That way, you can see every wrinkle from when I either had that receipt in my pocket or in my Two and a Half Men canvas tote bag (received when publicity was high for season 1 on DVD).
I tried a little bit after I started the blog and thought I'd be content with just having the scanned receipts posted as they were (hoping that you readers would be ok with squinting), but I want them as big as I see pictures on other blogs. That way, you can see every wrinkle from when I either had that receipt in my pocket or in my Two and a Half Men canvas tote bag (received when publicity was high for season 1 on DVD).
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