Today started last night. With the best intentions, and spun out on coffee haagen-dazs, I sat listing out what today would look like. Then I put my clothes away, organized my desk, filed my bills, and finished a book. It is summer and I toss and turn in the heat. I slip under and on top of the sheets. I listen to the neighbor's air-conditioner and hate how noisy and wasteful it is. I take a sip of water because my throat feels dusty. I have another to wash the dust down. I put the cat in the basement. I contemplate getting up and changing my facebook heading to: coffee ice cream contains caffeine. But, I don't.
I overslept, I couldn't get myself out of bed at quarter of seven for my run. I almost miss my eight o'clock phone date. The library books went unreturned. I fill my car up with gasoline on my way to the barn. I skipped doing the laundry at noon to have a coffee date that turned into an entire afternoon. My kitchen is still in need of a scrubbing and the vacuuming has remained undone.
I did manage to call home in time to find out that we were four blocks away from one another and had an impromptu dinner date.
Today was not a day for my endless listing and organizing and micro-scheduling. After all, I always have tomorrow for that.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Switchblade Sunday
I have been the proud owner of an Italian made switchblade for four, no five, years. It is sleek and black and has a four-inch blade. It is illegal and I keep the mechanism well oiled. I use it to open my mail. Not bills or information regarding a new offer of a life of borrowing and debt; but, mail, real mail written by the hand of someone I know.
It was late winter in 2004, one of those days when you know that spring is close but you wear a jacket over your sweater. I had already worked that morning, I was a Barista at Bau Haus (those were the days, weren't they? full of action and caffeine, friends, late nights, and forgotten mondays). I pulled my motorcycle up outside of the Madison Market and a dude on a whole lot of drugs ran up to me: I have what you need. He exclaimed. What ever it was, I seriously doubted that I wanted much less needed it. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out this amazing little knife. See, he said, and pushed the small round ball on the handle. The blade sprang to life. As any normal person, I recoiled as the stranger on speed flashed the switchblade in the afternoon sun. He pushed the release at the top of the hilt and the blade disappeared.
It had a solid weight in my hand. The blade was steel and strong, unlike the cheap blades we would buy in Encinada as teenagers. I had to admit that despite the odds, the man had had what I needed. (And, even more, secretly wanted.) I carried the steel in my back left pocket for months. It felt good in there. Not that I needed protection, but that I had my own back. I liked that no one else could flick it open with as much natural ease as I; I liked that the boys were jealous.
I have stopped carrying the blade as it was more about status than anything else. But, I love the reminder it holds: of that one perfect summer before I left Seattle and everything changed; that sometimes strangers do have just what I've been looking for; that being a little bit macho is down right sexy in a girl.
It was late winter in 2004, one of those days when you know that spring is close but you wear a jacket over your sweater. I had already worked that morning, I was a Barista at Bau Haus (those were the days, weren't they? full of action and caffeine, friends, late nights, and forgotten mondays). I pulled my motorcycle up outside of the Madison Market and a dude on a whole lot of drugs ran up to me: I have what you need. He exclaimed. What ever it was, I seriously doubted that I wanted much less needed it. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out this amazing little knife. See, he said, and pushed the small round ball on the handle. The blade sprang to life. As any normal person, I recoiled as the stranger on speed flashed the switchblade in the afternoon sun. He pushed the release at the top of the hilt and the blade disappeared.
It had a solid weight in my hand. The blade was steel and strong, unlike the cheap blades we would buy in Encinada as teenagers. I had to admit that despite the odds, the man had had what I needed. (And, even more, secretly wanted.) I carried the steel in my back left pocket for months. It felt good in there. Not that I needed protection, but that I had my own back. I liked that no one else could flick it open with as much natural ease as I; I liked that the boys were jealous.
I have stopped carrying the blade as it was more about status than anything else. But, I love the reminder it holds: of that one perfect summer before I left Seattle and everything changed; that sometimes strangers do have just what I've been looking for; that being a little bit macho is down right sexy in a girl.
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