New friends and old ones newly met are mirrors as much as input mechanisms. They serve to remind us who we are and where wish we were headed.
A sort of course correction in the journey. And of course we do the same for them. And somewhere in the exchange, we each add a little bit more to our collective portfolio of experience from each side of the equation. Gender rules and social norms be damned, by the way. I need no one’s permission to associate.
For those who might express concern or dismay at my Magdalen ways.
I am raising my children to be worthwhile human beings, but also worthwhile companions. Or so I hope to achieve. Rich input.
Interesting people and places and things. Sights and sounds. Shared jokes and observations. I think I am likely raising the ultimate well rounded hipster nerd queens in waiting.
Such a fucking hipster am I, myself, with my burgundy plaid and velvet slippers, leather jacket and Dr. Who scarf and shredded skinny jeans.
I am writing this on a typewriter app on my iPad right now is how hipster I am.
…And listening to vintage punk and New Wave tracks on Spotify. Mission of Burma and Johnny Thunders and The Nerves, The Waterboys, The Buzzcokcs, etc.
Rich input on a lazy Sunday, good food and old bookstores, family, friends, and songs to be sung until we are breathless and dizzy and full of hope.
Chaos, Faith and Ice Cream…
Some days the stress builds up in the back of your neck faster than you can breathe it out, faster than you can imagine ways in which everything will work out in the end.
Those of us whose strength is creating calm and stability can’t always stave the tide of chaos and panic that radiate from those around us.
Sometimes it knocks us down and we have to fight to gain the strength to rise back up.
You can’t make people have faith. But you can be a constant reminder of it. Faith in humanity or progress or the idea that life is ultimately more interesting than a lack thereof.
Ice cream, good music, and things that smell good are all fantastic aids in the faith restoration department.
“It isn’t a carnival, Rogers, it’s a hanging.”
Ten years ago I lived in a different city where the default personality of my acquiantances and co-workers was largely incompatible with my own. Today I sit in a bar singing karaoke with strangers more or less accidentally and it seems about right. It’s been a while since I last felt surrounded yet lonely. September 11th ten years ago I felt that times a thousand.
Sign at La Placita in Albuquerque …
Ironically was reading a Townes Van Zandt bio when Amy Winehouse died. Some people wear their temporal lobes on their sleeves so the rest of us can have art. Who are we to say they can’t kill the pain for the sake of the song…
There will be rain at last. The parched desert floor and my sinuses are grateful. I am battling my lack of energy by engaging myself in more projects, both at work and outside of it. Hoping my life will get more well organized as a side effect. Some of it has to do with missing my father and grandfather, I think. They were undeniably smart and undeniably ethical and had character. Somewhere inside me I have that too, I am still that 19 year old would-be agitator, reading “I Rigoberta Menchu” and hanging out with radicals in the PCC basement cafeteria. I still believe there are differences to be made and battles worth fighting. But if I’m going to fight them, I’d just as soon do it in a monsoon downpour.