Over the Hump Day

Seven fifty five.

I am somewhere between comfortable and irritable right now. I just got up. Yesterday afternoon I found an old cassette tape of Sportin’ Life by Weather Report, a throwback to the mid Eighties when I was in college. I didn’t listen to it, though seeing it put me in a strange mood. My ideas in the summer of 1988 started out Kantian and gradually morphed to something like Freud, including a view of the unconscious. I barely had a handle on psychoanalytic concepts; sort of arrived at them independently, but I think Freud was in the atmosphere of my school. Whatever the ideology of a certain place, I tend to sponge it up.

Nine thirty. At the store, another customer and I negotiated over who was next in line. She said quite honestly that she was not in a hurry to get to work. I ended up going ahead of her, but she got served right away because Michelle used both registers. Now I’m thinking that I kind of miss having a job, however I don’t miss the culture of working and drinking. My sister was right: I cut my own swath away from the family, not without a little regret. It would’ve been impossible for me to do it their way. I’ve put aside the shame and just moved ahead with life… It’s sunny with a breeze in the trees. It was 48 degrees out when I made my daily pilgrimage. A homeowner on Fremont Avenue is re roofing her house. A guy in a huge black cowboy hat said good morning while the workers tore up the old roof. For two days now, the white ghost truck has been back in front of Derek’s house: no Confederate plates. At least the truck was real. I didn’t hallucinate. Times are very strange. 

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