First, how is it that just as I finally sat down to write this evening (okay it’s night, not even evening, but I am sitting down) Elgar’s Rosemary came on the radio? Dear God that is just proof that all of the sweet moments are real . . .
I was going to write about kinds of people because of what I saw at the bus stop this morning and the way I ate a can of salmon today and because what I smelled in my truck turned out not to be a dead rodent after all, and the way a band-aid once covered a chipped fingernail . . .
But I think I will just wander around this page for a bit, like I did on Shade, all day. It was relatively hot for Portland and vicinity.
And it’s hotter still inside a mail truck. That added value is caused by the energy of a star (Sun) that is so far away (149.6 million km) it takes eight minutes and 20 seconds for it to reach earth. And yet, when that sunlight goes through a large window of, say, a mail truck, it begins to excite the atoms in the molecules in the air mix inside that truck. And the driver shouldn’t, but he frequently does drive with his door open on the back streets. God forbid that he would do it on the busy avenue called McLoughlin, but yeah, on Boardman, Blanton, or Abernathy or Addie, even Hull, he does it. The reason is that so much excitement amongst those atomic revelers makes him jealous and he wants them to have their good times elsewhere because when they party they really heat things up. But, open door or no, mostly the air is trapped and it just keeps getting more and more energetic (i.e. hot) and so does the mailman who ate his canned salmon with the lid of it, because he could not find his spoon.
And when he does things like that, sure it’s a little crude, but
and I know it’s okay in the grand scheme. Blessed are the crude for they shall delight in Shade . . .
Believe me, if it ever became a real deal breaker, I’d go all hoity-toity and pack better, and plan better and eat better lunches. And, like I said, I gotta get my kitchen organized.
But for now, if I cannot find my spoon, or don’t remember that, although I meant to put that plastic fork that I saved from the church potluck in my lunch bag, I’d actually stuffed it in my hip pocket where I found it not too long before I saw this as I walked home,
then I am just gonna do whatever it takes. Use the lid. Use gravity and tip it, scraping with a label from a mail tray. The tip of a pen. A stick. Once, a holly leaf, but not a good idea.
That fork was too late to help me easily eat those Omega 3s, but sitting on the fork all day and not knowing it reminded me that I am no pea princess, but that is one nice view as I walked home, so I felt like a prince.
And fine, I just typed the words princess and prince and the announcer immediately said those two words after playing Scheherazade . . .
I give up. I just accept it. There is no need of a how, just that it is.
This is the one, at least on YouTube. Gergiev is a maniac. And in Vienna too, he is like this. It is no act, there is no drama with him. He is in love with Music. Cracks me up sometimes, brings me to tears at other times.
I noticed that it got hotter than predicted today.
Shade was a perfect complement . . . one of a kind.