Monday, August 26, 2013

The March of Time

It's becoming home, Tommie. It's becoming home. When I look around at the chaos and think, this is where I live, the terror is not as sharp. It's still depressing, the chaos, the boxes, the furniture piled one on top of the other. The dingy walls and still uncleaned floors. But it's fun to be picked up from my home to go down to Manuel's Tavern 5 minutes away or watch the young people preparing to move in next door. And I still get to go on a treasure hunt every day. This morning I found a toaster and waffle iron, items that my friend Rose Lynn would kill for, I think. She would have prepared breakfast right then and there.

Tonight on TV there was this civil rights celebration of the impending 50 year milestone of the church bombing. I had to Google it. I sort of remember but not really. Same as the march on Washington and Martin Luther King's stunning speech. I bet Tommie knew all about it. It is easy to feel noble by virtue of living it when cultural will foments a huge revolution, and it's natural to remember the influence of it. But true nobility is having been the focus of it-- not the victim, the focus.

Turns out, the church bombing happened on my birthday, September 15. Go figure.

I made a friend in the neighborhood! Maran is a self-described Buddhist Gypsy. We went for a walk this morning with her dog Riley. There is a park one block over with lots of verdant spaces, ballfields, tennis courts, a gazebo etc. Perfect for walking. We greeted other walkers and residents, Riley checked out each and every canine. The park hosts the drumline from the local high school marching band for practice on some afternoons. I love the sound of it. I also love the sound of the rock band two doors down. Just wondering what is will sound like if they ever practice on the same afternoon.

I got a ridiculous case of poison ivy. Ridiculous meaning even the palm of my hand is infected. I hacked and pulled on vines to get them out of the gutter and wham! Urushiol socked it to me. The fairyland in the backyard has its own version of witches. Hansel and Gretel should beware. My neck, chin, wrists, thighs and butt are bubbly, bumpy landscapes.

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