8745B5F9-3400-48B4-A53B-A95DE9A0BDB5.jpegOne thirty. I suppose I take pretty good care of myself to still be here. I was incredulous when Jeannie told me Carol was gone. I remember her carrot red hair and her kindness. I recall her tears when she was frustrated and overwhelmed by stress. I gave her words of advice once that she always appreciated later… Carol’s passing makes me ponder my own death: when will be my time? Will I be ready? What had I hoped I would accomplish in my life? I know what my mother wanted for me, but I never identified it for myself. The music activities had been closely related to substance abuse, not only mine but everyone else’s too. I’d rather leave them behind and be free from compulsions. The force of history will find something better for me to do. I love the gray days and the sunny ones alike. The day and the rhythm of the night pick me up and take me for a ride. The cold and fog in the morning inspire me with archaic memories, or tones and feelings remembered by this body. It’s a weird sensation walking into the convenience store and being among school teens at eight o’clock in the morning. Moving up and down Maxwell I see some of the same old trees, but sprouting up among them is new housing that I could not afford with even twice my income. I saw Patty at Laurel Hill yesterday. It wasn’t a surprise. She lives on N Park and we often bump into each other at the store. She makes her trip early in the morning, usually close to opening at six thirty. Life really isn’t bad for me with a mental illness. I see a lot of the same people everywhere I go in town. Patty is well liked at the market. It is fun to go there in the morning as opposed to late afternoon. After four o’clock it becomes a liquor store, unfortunately. The little store is like everything: its value depends on how you use it. In itself the market merely exists, just sits there waiting to be given meaning. In my perambulations all about Maxwell Road, I impose significance on many things…


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