A Word, a Wall

Quarter after six.

I’m considering making an early trip to the store…

While I was there, I saw a few Black people. The storefront looked warm and inviting as I came up to the double door. I thought fleetingly of my brother and then disposed of him. It’s a cloudy morning. The landscape from along the Maxwell sidewalk reminded me of November a few years ago, and I remembered how afraid I was of people’s criticism. I’m in much better shape now, or perhaps the health organization I dealt with was really lousy with respect to people with schizophrenia… I’d forgotten that the Oregon Ducks won the Rose Bowl in 2012. This fact was advertised on a green sign by the beer cooler. Both parties of customers ahead of me ordered biscuits and gravy, so I stood there waiting patiently. Sometimes I think of Vicki when I’m at the market, but today I didn’t. Frankly she wasn’t a very nice person… I have to be ready to go at nine o’clock to be at Laurel Hill by ten for my appointment with Heidi. I’m still not very awake yet.

Quarter of eight. It’s interesting that being okay with yourself is a matter of balancing positives and negatives. Guilt and shame are the worst feelings you can experience, so it’s good to eliminate them. On the asphalt in the middle of Fremont Street, someone had spray painted the word “Gay” in red. So there it was in writing, the wall that everybody comes up against. It really doesn’t surprise me for this part of the city, this stupid conservative suburb. 

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