During the past few days, I recall:
Watching my gingersnap-crust pumpkin cream pie devoured, and noting that even though I’ve never liked pumpkin pie, I’ve developed an appreciation for just one bite of it per pie– the bite that informs me of whether or not it tastes as it should. I feel a surge of delight on my tongue and in my brain when I taste the richness and creaminess and the perfect balance of spices and the pumpkin, and it delights me so much, it’s a kind of enjoyment close to, but not exactly the same as liking pumpkin pie. An appreciation of my work. If I take a second bite, I can’t help but scrunch my face up a little, because I don’t really like pumpkin pie. I’m okaaay with whipped cream, normally, though I do like it a little bit more with freshly grated nutmeg, and I do genuinely enjoy the taste and texture of a gingersnap crust.
Laying on my side and resting my arm in its thick cozy light teal sleeve on my black denim-clad hip, as I tried to console Aria, who’d called me crying and desperate on the phone, from the park a couple of blocks away from my old house, shakily telling me how she didn’t want to go back home because home’s such a horrible place. I understood and told her it is a horrible place, so much tension from everyone all the time, that none of the adults in that house deal with problems or themselves in even a slightly healthy or mature manner. She told me she’s been thinking that too lately and elaborated and I told her she’s beginning to think with an adult mind. She vented for a while and then I worded some of my mom’s behavior in a humorous way and she began to laugh and feel better and I told her that her observations, though unpopular in that household, were absolutely correct. She decided to go back home.
Savoring the late hour and wandering through the empty stores on black friday, places normally forbidden in the middle of the night, and thinking about Christmas. First it was the mall at midnight, with William and our friend Timberly and his new girlfriend, whose influence makes him act a lot more like a Tim, like an adult, I’m most grateful, than Timberly, the annoying little bitch that he usually is. The stores were insanely crowded and I felt a panic attack coming on, but I just wandered out in the emptiest corridor for a bit and within an hour, everyone started to go home. By 2 a.m., there was almost no one, and at 3 a.m., I said my reluctant goodbye to Timberly’s woman and William and I went to some other places. At Dick’s Sporting Goods, William bought several boxes of ammunition for his AR-15, though he did already have a lot. I think he just wanted to be able to say that he bought doorbuster AR-15 ammo on black friday to piss off his facebook friends.
Adoring the feel of threading off the tip of my Sig and threading my silencer onto the barrel, one of my favorite things to do and one of the most sensual for me, to show to Timberly’s gal, who stared in awe and exclaimed, “That’s some fucking spy shit right there!” She deserves a name so I’ll call her Gloria.
Singing this Lily & Madeleine song, “In the middle”, over and over again, and thinking about winter and someone I miss. I’m going to see if I can get Aria to memorize it so we can sing it together when she visits in less than a month. The river is white/ It’s tangled and dry/ But I still remember you here/ Swimming in the middle…
Taking it upon myself to get all of my Christmas shopping done for everyone on my list, between black friday sales and cyber monday. Such relief about that. I only have a few stocking stuffers for William and Aria left to buy.
Laughing hysterically, over and over again, as William developed an obsession with Richard Simmons.
Sitting around a tiny table with four other people at a really pretentious restaurant and wine bar called 13.5%, earlier tonight, in a hipster neighborhood called Hampden. I found the food just okay, but overpriced and under-portioned, barely enough to fill me up and I normally eat about half the portion size most people do. Service was snotty and unfriendly, and I could tell all this just by looking at the place, and would certainly not have patronized it were it not for Timberly and Gloria asking. Timberly kept talking about my silencer and I told him I thought his restaurant review of Atwater’s from a couple of days ago was extremely well-written, worlds better than most journalism out there, and that I don’t think most journalists these days can write worth a dime. He looked relieved that someone else thinks so too, and I got to talk with Gloria at length. I sense a lot of strength beneath her demure exterior, but I feel protective of her nonetheless, somehow. A little sad that she’s going back to Texas tomorrow.
Perking up a bit before dinner when I saw a big stuffed Totoro in the window of a funny little store I go into once in a while. It’s from the movie My Neighbor Totoro, one of my favorites, and there he is on the left, round grey guy with the mischievous face:
