She’s driving a monkey-shit brown Charger with interior the colour of dehydrated urine. I’m in a white Honda Accord with a V6 engine. Stopped at the light, we both look over at each other. Smiles. Idiots.
Driving down memory lane, especially with others in the bus, should be avoided. The reflections, like those showing on a small body of water are not sure, not true. The ripples distort the truth and we don’t have an honest picture of what we think we remember. It isn’t what it is. It is what it isn’t.
I run over a chipmunk. I was rushing off to some training and he runs out on the suburban street and stops. I suppose I could have swerved, but instead I closed my eyes and heard and small thump, thump and felt a small bump, bump. At least it was over for the little guy quickly.
Instead of the road, maybe take to the air. Try for a 10,000-foot perspective. Like the hawk circling above the highway watching the early morning roadkill breakfast getting further flattened in the morning rush. Pancake roadkill, so close and yet so far. That’s perspective. Those are memories. Nothing good comes from living in the past.
If you want something done, get it done early. Do it first.
It’s hot and windy. I get up early and get most of my work done before lunch which I had with a colleague. He took me out because over the past ten years, I have sent a lot of business his way and we don’t really know each other very well. He called me up the day before and said he wanted to take me out to lunch sometime. I said, “sure, how about tomorrow.” If you don’t arrange that sort of thing for the next day or two, it never happens.
I get an email from some old clients who are currently living out of their Safari Van. They send me pictures from California, Oregon and BC.
I’ve always liked walking. I take a very long walk down through a neighbourhood that gets very posh and then very grubby and then along Bread Truck Street, past some new high rise condos and the railway station and back through a working class neighbourhood that was built more than a hundred years ago around furniture factories and then electronic factories and then as you keep walking north, around tool shops. The factories have mostly been converted into condos already, except for one that poisoned the earth around it and is riddled with asbestos and pox.
The rain started coming down and I don’t walk in the rain. I’m just not that romantic. You cannot be a cynical romantic.
I drink coffee and look out into the rain.
After Starbucks, I find a sidewalk solitude. I walk and walk and walk, not worried about getting lost. Having a computer in my pocket has taken most of the unknown out of things. It’s a treasure hunt where we have a map, but not the treasure. It’s a movie where we’ve read the book, but forgotten the language.
I’ve got a lot of paperwork to compile for the lawyers and for the insurance over the weekend. There are 40 of us on the lawsuit now against Chucklehead Smith’s Cowboy Clowns and we are paying the retainer in proportion to what we are owed. I’m small potatoes as it turns out. I’ve got $30,000 coming so my portion of the bill is less than $500. Other’s are owed ten times and twenty times that! I’ll pay the money and let them do all the work. They’ve got a lot more skin in the game.
I walk around the outside of building. Nothing looks very good after a flood or a drought, locusts, teenagers or anarchists. We are in that purgatory, that in between time, limbo. Ugly limbo, waiting for inspiration, aways waiting, piebald, calico, streaked with mud and graffiti.
When I get back home, I throw all of my clothes in the hamper and have a shower.