Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Ephemeral
It's been summer break for Baz and I've been kind of a mess with all the caretaking. But right now I was just watching him, listening to him babble about some story called Farmer Dale's Red Pickup Truck, and I realized that little voice will mature at one point and things will never be the same.
Without words
I can't begin to describe what happened when Baz and I met my father in Monterey this week. Suffice to say I left early and under bad circumstances.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
Monday, July 29, 2019
Breakthrough
We got notice that our landlord selling our place last August, so it's been nearly a year. In that time I haven't been able to think about 2214 Grant Street in any sort of positive way, though (or perhaps because) we'd been there so long.
Then last night I pictured myself out on the small porch, the one facing the ivy with the peeling black paint on the railings. In the memory, I was on the phone with my insurance company, who had just doubled the premium on my policy. "Well," the customer-service rep said, "it's due to Mr. Sandler's driving record."
"Really," I said, amused. I was always the fuckup in the relationship. "Why don't you tell me about Mr. Sandler's record?"
Turns out it was something that wasn't his fault, but that's not the point. The point was the memory was good, powerful, and positive. And welcome.
I did just make the mistake of looking through the pictures on the listing again. Man. They managed to erase any facet of charm in the Farm, which was our cottage in the back. I guess you can slap on a coat of white paint and put up some stupid sign saying "Cherries" in the backyard and draw out all the individual quirkiness that made it what it was and ask nearly $1.3 mil for the whole shebang-a-bang, right? Fuck.
Then last night I pictured myself out on the small porch, the one facing the ivy with the peeling black paint on the railings. In the memory, I was on the phone with my insurance company, who had just doubled the premium on my policy. "Well," the customer-service rep said, "it's due to Mr. Sandler's driving record."
"Really," I said, amused. I was always the fuckup in the relationship. "Why don't you tell me about Mr. Sandler's record?"
Turns out it was something that wasn't his fault, but that's not the point. The point was the memory was good, powerful, and positive. And welcome.
I did just make the mistake of looking through the pictures on the listing again. Man. They managed to erase any facet of charm in the Farm, which was our cottage in the back. I guess you can slap on a coat of white paint and put up some stupid sign saying "Cherries" in the backyard and draw out all the individual quirkiness that made it what it was and ask nearly $1.3 mil for the whole shebang-a-bang, right? Fuck.
Sunday, July 28, 2019
The Oversharer
The question is, how much do I say and how much do I keep to myself? When you put something out in the world it supposedly can't be taken back. That usually doesn't bother me, but it does here.
Bob Seger, "Night Moves"
Funny how the night moves
When you just don't seem to have that much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in
When you just don't seem to have that much to lose
Strange how the night moves
With autumn closing in
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