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Tuesday, Aug. 12, 2003 / 7:15 p.m. ~It's a Strange Collection of Records, After All~ The sky finally became so heavy with all of it, everything so chunky and hazy and full, that it darkened, and the rain falls now, softly and slowly, like it hasn't yet made a full commitment to rain. The sky is reluctant to give in. And there is a family not far from here, just up the street, including a boy with his head to a pillow, sitting on the curb by their belongings, put there in an eviction. I saw them after I left the grocery store, wanted to turn around, to stop, to offer them something, at first wondering why the boy was sitting with his head in a pillow, then on the way back seeing their things there too - how did I not notice on the first pass? - and now they sit in the rain. So many apartment complexes line this neighborhood, compose its periphery, and every so often, sometimes two in one day, or more, there are evictions, people driving trucks on to the curbs, loading, or others pilfering, seeing what's good, and others just sitting, guarding, waiting. I think, There, but for the grace of all that is supreme and all-knowing, of that in which I have no faith, but it is part of the expression after all, go I. I'm lucky. No, not blessed, don't say that, I'm lucky. I have my health, I can function in society, hold down a job, live frugally, wait weeks to deposit my paychecks. I can pay my rent, feed myself, and feed Norm and Glad too. But this is a pissy rain, and maybe it will end soon. Last night I did listen to records, after the horrid, but have to watch "For Love Or Money Deux". I heard Bille Holiday, Joe Turner, The Inkspots (the fucking Inkspots!), Al Jolson (couldn't bear to listen to the horrible un-PC "Mammy", but it's there!), Marlene Dietrich (I know, fucking Marlene Dietrich, singing "Lily Marlene"!), and Edith Piaf again. There was some Latin rhumba, or mambo, or samba, or something, in between, many records in my mother's old collection (yes, I've determined it was surely hers) from her days in Mexico City, or possibly earlier in Bogota, Colombia, where she lived as a teenager. These must be the records she listened to in her youth, while in mine there was Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, Yes, Jethro Tull, later Talking Heads and Lene Lovich, B-52s, she had Artie Shaw and Lily Marlene. I was exhausted though, and at 11:00 or so I wrapped it up, so to speak, closed the cabinet, put the new record player away, and fell asleep just as my eyes closed once horizontal in bed. Today was day three with the Supervisor back from her near three month mysterious hiatus/sabbatical/absence. No explanation still, but she is back, and other than an obligatory receiving line of hugs on Friday when the Manager (M) announced her return, "Guess who's here?!", no ceremony, no pomp, nor circumstance. I don't know why she is back. We don't need her. Ah, communication with Sandy has resumed. Sandy, a name from the past, but as we chatted briefly on the phone today, my first 'personal' call from my cube in months!, I remembered that I was at one time attracted enough to consider sex with him, to consider romance, to consider deep and lasting friendship, and frustrated enough to consider removing him from my life permanently. He wants some of the stickers, maybe half, is willing to pay, but I'd never charge him. And we may get together on Sunday, or maybe next weekend, see a movie, or just go out and talk. We may both go to the march in D.C. in October, or not. And I have to remember the last time we went together, before I got sick, and before I vowed not to get on that fucking bus again, him massaging my feet late at night, on the bus, full moon out our window, cold as cold can be, but warm inside. And we stopped at a rest stop, all the women piling out to pee, me in my long johns and coat, shoes untied, looking at the moon's reflection on the snow. Good times. I read the moon is full today as well, and maybe that's the reason, for what, I don't know, but for anything. Sandy told me he was severely depressed not long ago, had to seek medical attention, discovered he was sleep deprived, and I'm not sure why he told me, unless to further attempt to explain not returning my last "Hey, what are you doing? Let's go get a beer" message on his answering machine the night I saw "Capturing the Friedmans" and needed to talk afterward. I went to my favorite bistro, sat and drank alone, went dancing instead. I think that was the night, yes? All he had to say was he got my message and he was out of town, sorry, but instead I got more than I wanted to know. Nice for a man to express his vulnerability like that, to come clean, even if it is in the category of TMI. And he's been following the Dead, like the hippie he always will be. Fine, fine. The chunky air outside gave me a horrible choking/coughing attack towards the late afternoon, and I passed my phone call on to Jane, asked her to take over while I turned red and tears ran down my cheeks. Thank you, Jane. She is so sweet, there's something angelic about her, aside from her every mention of drinking alcohol. I told her about the Inkspots, and how I want more 78 records now, and she said I should sit and play records and drink wine on the weekend. And I wonder why wine has to go with everything fun and good, in her mind. She mentions drinking a lot, as if it's important to her. Maybe I judge too harshly, I've somehow outgrown the need or desire for mood alterations. Every now and then, I don't doubt, I don't deny, but as I told her, wine makes me sleepy now. I can't drink it and not lie down after, to nap. I'm feeling full with thoughts, like there's a lot swirling around inside me, and maybe it is the full moon, and maybe I'm full and fertile, ovulating, I can see that as the case as well, causing me to be more sensual, or is it sensuous?, and I never know the difference, but being more aware of everything that my senses perceive, along with an increase in empathy, hence feeling the pain of the evictees up the street, on their curb, with their things, in the soft rain. Major TV night, no wine for me, I'd pass out before the first show. But I would like a glass of wine right now, Jane, I would. And you here to drink a glass as well. Cost of the War in Iraq
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