The steaming cup has the weirdest-tasting hummus ever. What is that? Dirt and tree ear? With a side of yesterday’s thrown-out chai grounds? And some tires? Oh well, maybe it’s good for ya. It tastes as if it were made from like white beans or something, not chick peas. So, big on my list lately: - money, how to spend less - writing, why I even want to and how to allow myself to because i have memories of it, good and bad, and the memories are calling to me lately - body, the little things that are going wrong with it and how it seems as if lately they are particularly gross, embarrassing things - gratitude, nevertheless, I’m still doing OK and have been having some pretty nice days here lately - kids, guilt - weed, need more, would like to be able to even-out and moderate more, not have it be tied up with alcohol or alcohol as a consolation prize when the weed is about to run out, wish it was legal here too dammit, that’s one drawback of living in such a relatively risk-free locale I guess, it takes FOREVER for people around here to give up and be decadent, fuck Fuck safety. safety leads you to curved curbs, the beveled edges of car-centric neighborhoods where everything is sunny and suspicious. Hot summer sun beating down on tightly-shingled roofs over blandly successful homes half-hidden by predictable semi-shade trees. The sun is winning, the shade is token, but nobody cares because everybody’s inside or what, at work I guess? Where do they work? The tan street, a rectangular green strip, the gray path/sidewalk if there is one, some rectangular green areas with pre-planned perennials and a very respectable-looking play-set, beige siding, efficient windows, a garage as big as an airplane hangar, absolutely nothing will jump out of the weeds at you because there are no weeds here. This is the land where the accidental is illegal. So you go instead to an older neighborhood in technically a different city, even though it’s all the same city these days. If there’s any gay people around, they’re doing a very nice job of not being up in everybody’s face about it. So that’s disappointing, but you didn’t come this far to not write your stupid 500 words for the day--yes, quiet desperation has finally driven you to trying that again. Hey, it can’t hurt. Going back to the gym is just as risible, and that has certainly been having some good, noticeable effects lately, so maybe, hey, what the hell, why not-- Black Batman walks by on the sidewalk outside this cafe that doesn’t have public wifi (which used to be annoying but right now seems like a big cool jug of relief) but none of the other people out there on the sidewalk notice him, because they are all walking along past each other with their eyes and faces tilted down at about 30º because phones. Now I have eighteen words to go to meet my dumb little goal, and here’s the thing: I didn’t produce or learn anything except maybe this: - outside is interesting - we have to fight back against our own tendencies sometimes - i really want to be around gay people a lot lot lot lot more, and that’s simply not going to happen unless I go to the trouble to do some things about it. So in other words, I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. But that’s OK. Some days are like that, and this day isn’t even over yet. Sometimes people look through the glass when they’re on their way in here, and sometimes I look back at them. Then one or the other of us (eventually both) looks away. 500 words is like nothin. Maybe I should up the sets. Shit, I ain’t getting any younger. (2016)