But enough on that. I can't even begin to recap everything that's happened over the course of May. A night behind the line, Un cochino de ensaladas y nachos ranks pretty high on the list; just getting back from West Virginia:
were I spent a weekend with family and family friends and had an amazing time; wavering between Katharine and Kansas, actually, spending time with Katharine is fun while it lasts, but she'd never go see Just Wright with me, which wasn't the original plan but it's what we did anyway, Kansas and I, and I'll bet she doesn't have a spare VCR in her closet, like Kansas did, that she'd practically throw at me after a freakin' 9:30 staff meeting on a Sunday morning, for the love of God, Kansas, please don't get yourself fired, I wouldn't make it there without you; and then there was the woman, the teacher, I met a few days ago when I was waiting for the train, four hours is a long time to wait for a train, but I showed her and her four-year-old rosy little daughter around town, and we got coffee and she really enjoyed the quaint obscurity of a place she's been visiting for years and never gotten around to knowing; reading Virginia Woolf and feeling intimidated by the possibility of meeting a comrade right there in the pages of her mind; the bikini contest at the Cube the other night, that was fun too, even if I couldn't see a damned thing.
Buying copies of ELO's Greatest Hits, Sly and the Family Stone's Greatest Hits, and, out of left field, The Blueprint 3, because I absolutely can't get these songs out of my head; enjoying my homebrew recipe Queen Bitch so much that I want to make it again; sunburns and cuts; playing a Marshall cabinet that's probably four feet tall, and standing in front of it with the volume all the way up and my pants rattling around my legs and me not even caring at all; catching a two-foot long Drum (I insist it was a Bass, of course) with my screwball brother; the Flyers; laughing at the guys at the Cube who, on dares, chuck baseballs at the tall church roof across the street and of course narrowly miss the large stained-glass windows; upset that one of them used my friend, who is a more beautiful person than he'll ever deserved in ten miserable lifetimes; buying my boss (the hot one) a beer, and finishing it anyway because she left; the weather, which can't make up its mind; starting a play.
Yeah, this is the top of the list. If I remember anything else I'll throw it in there, in red though, so you know it's an edit.
If my May appears exciting and memorable, though, you should hear about Beatrice's month, because it will absolutely validate mine. His has been full of sitting, and occasionally standing, he visited me at the Chain one Monday; reading, a touch of writing, some guitar playing but not much; and doctor's visits, and subscriptions, and pills. Eating, stretching (his latest obsession), and one visit home, for another doctor's appointment, but also because he needs to do laundry and the washing machine is jammed.
For a long time I have wondered what Beatrice would have done in a previous life, because in this one he's not suited to much. He's lazy, a recluse: he wakes up late, with a regular morning routine of television or the internet until sometime in the mid-afternoon, when he takes a shower. Then he reads more, or may occasionally venture out for food or a change of scenery. He's stingy with cash. He talks and is narrow-mindedly opinionated, knowing only what he reads, never what he experiences; he's a fine speaker and performer, when he generates an audience, which he can do but only amoung the congregated unsuspecting. He has dreams and goals but none of them are within his reach, making him a constant, pathetic dreamer. Above and beyond he is celibate, though his sexuality is certainly questionable at this point.
So I says to myself, Self, what kind of job could have possibly existed for this kind of person back in the olden days, back before the Internet?
The answer came swifter than I expected. Beatrice is a Priest.
Lassen wir uns nicht fremden!
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