I eat out a lot. I gawk at the differences in people – skin color, eye color, hair color, weight, height, the crappy clothes people think are perfectly OK to wear in public. I vent my frustration in traffic by using the car horn, driving others to atomic levels of irritation. Middle fingers are offensive, but I find myself still giving a British two fingered salute – why?
I haven’t yet tired of seeing the lovely Minneapolis skyline, though I don’t think I ever will. Its silvers and golds are part of my Midwest. I walk barefoot across the lawn and the grass is softer than I ever thought possible. Gas is expensive, beer is cheap. This is how one comes home for the first time, how I feel like an imposter in a house where I know the silverware drawer from the one with the pens and rubber bands.
My final box of things arrived from Japan yesterday, slow-boated over and almost bursting apart due to the compression bag having a leak. I put it in the storage room with the rest of the contents of my apartment, then spent the next hour on a treasure hunt for nostalgia, rooting through picture boxes, books, trinkets. Why did I ever keep this stuff, why can’t I bear to throw it away?
Writer’s block is subsiding, but overall creative endeavors give way to one of my favorite past times – laying on the bed while the white curtains blow in the cool August breeze. 76 and sunny, this might just be paradise.
