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Tuesday, May. 27, 2003 / 5:53 p.m. ~This Is How It Seems~ I'm getting paid to do this. I can do whatever I want, whatever I can afford, whatever I deem appropriate, or right, or good, or fun, or necessary. It couldn't be much better. Only if it were a permanent state. Last night was perfect. I went to my favorite restaurant/cafe/bistro, ate wonderful food, sensuous, flavorful, salmon on ciabatta bread, with tomatoes, field greens with balsamic vinagrette, a hint of anise, grapes, honeydew, orange, raspberry white chocolate cheesecake with a huge strawberry on the side, Pinot Grigiot, mochaccino with white chocolate. Outside, in the breeze, with the music, the jazz, and the beautiful people, and inside the one with the book, and I was going to ask what he was reading, but he was gone when I passed by again. Overtipping my Bulgarian waitress on her first night. Walking to the park from there, watching all the people, feeling so good just to be OUTside, to be in the air, to feel the feel of the air, to see the sun, to watch the clouds moving over us, the breeze constant, blowing everything stale away. And jazz in the park, and the sunset, and the clouds purple over the buildings in Midtown, the sky orange behind them. Sitting on a wall of stone, feeling the wind, closing my eyes to listen and feel and smell and sense everyone and everything around me, and not be a part of any of it, but be right in the thick of it all. Walking, just walking, just feeling, just singing in my head, the songs I heard the last time I wandered through the park, at night, with Walkman on. And chatting online 'til late, very late, fantasizing, getting lost, hoping, and snapping out of it, rudely awakening. But sleeping today, knowing I'm getting paid to do it. Buying stamps and paying bills and sharing a chair with a cat, and playing with two cats, simultaneously, and getting paid to do it. And getting a huge sandwich at the sandwich shop, staring at the ass of the woman in line, her dark thong's triangle perfectly visible beneath her tan skirt, all knit and clingy, that perfect ass, and wondering if she works for it, if she paid for it, if it's natural, and does she know how diaphanous that skirt really is? Did she in fact look in the mirror before she left her home? The all over tan so dark on her Caucasian skin. Paid to look. Paid to eat, paid to sit here now, then, later. Tomorrow and the next day, and the next. Couldn't be better really. Coming in from outside the air felt stale, warmer than outside, but I sit here now and it's cool. I'm confused. I'm digesting. I need to clean the porch, vacuum Spring's pollen left in a layer still. Clean surfaces, wash towels used to cover surfaces, left for cats. I need to sit out there, I need to sit and feel the air, the breeze, watch the leaves on the trees as they blow around. It seems there's nothing but time right now. Cost of the War in Iraq
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