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In one year and out the other
I don't see why the cloudburst which held off until I had left the house to check on the state of the local flowering trees couldn't have hit this morning when a square of concrete was jackhammered out of our immediate sidewalk, but I did actually manage to sleep and dream most vividly of hanging out in a waking-stranger's garden-level apartment whose bookshelves seemed to be populated entirely by Michael Whelan-jacketed science fiction. My bookshelves in high school would have been heavily tilted the same.
Yesterday I walked to Porter Square Books, who in their new location further up Mass. Ave. are still only about thirty-five minutes from me on foot, which felt like a major achievement considering the vaporized state of my physical health for longer than I like to think about. I got two books for my father, whose actual birthday it was, after which I had to drop off my watch at the same repair shop in Harvard Square from which I had collected it right before leaving for D.C. I don't think it should stop twice in three weeks, especially if it was supposed to have been fixed in between. That said, D.C. as detrimental to the healthy flow of history makes a certain amount of sense to me right now.
Today I left messages with all of my elected officials about the deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, since an executive branch that no longer even pretends to play by the constitutional rule of law is beyond overstatement bad, not to mention that even without the additional monstrosity of administrative error, nothing about the present hell of any of America's for-profit deportees improves my safety or security and if by some atrocious miracle it did, still no. I was born into this house we don't ask what became of the previous inhabitants. I don't have to go looking for more rooms.
P.S. And then this rainbow and the sunset at the other end of the street. Tomorrow I can call about Mohsen Mahdawi.
Yesterday I walked to Porter Square Books, who in their new location further up Mass. Ave. are still only about thirty-five minutes from me on foot, which felt like a major achievement considering the vaporized state of my physical health for longer than I like to think about. I got two books for my father, whose actual birthday it was, after which I had to drop off my watch at the same repair shop in Harvard Square from which I had collected it right before leaving for D.C. I don't think it should stop twice in three weeks, especially if it was supposed to have been fixed in between. That said, D.C. as detrimental to the healthy flow of history makes a certain amount of sense to me right now.
Today I left messages with all of my elected officials about the deportation of Kilmar Abrego Garcia, since an executive branch that no longer even pretends to play by the constitutional rule of law is beyond overstatement bad, not to mention that even without the additional monstrosity of administrative error, nothing about the present hell of any of America's for-profit deportees improves my safety or security and if by some atrocious miracle it did, still no. I was born into this house we don't ask what became of the previous inhabitants. I don't have to go looking for more rooms.
P.S. And then this rainbow and the sunset at the other end of the street. Tomorrow I can call about Mohsen Mahdawi.
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