Through a glass

Today was one of those days--frequent, for me, a worker-from-home--that I saw no one other than the people who transport or care for my children. It rained all day, with little wind. I kept the front door open. When the trash truck came, I wondered if the workers even noticed the stench from our neighbor's can, the one into which he dumped the contents of his fridge before he moved. Other than that, I didn't think about other people in any kind of sensual, experiential way. The few phone conversations I had were brief and boring.

After supper, we drove to a bookstore and I was startled to see faces behind the windshields of other cars, glimpses of people with dark hair, people glancing down at their radios, people talking to their passengers.

People in cars give the world the unknowing gift of their intimate gestures. Sometimes I can't believe I exist, until I see the motion of another person, a person who doesn't know I'm watching. I don't understand this, but it's true.

The greens, the blue, the red and the orange

Saw an oriole in the cherry tree this week. I've never seen them around before the chicory goes to seed. But I'm not usually lying in the hammock at 1 in in the afternoon, either, gazing at the perfect sky between layers of leaves.

I had locked myself out of the house, so eventually I got on my bike and ended up at the salon, where I got my hair cut very short again.

The Public-Private Continuum

"Good morning!" says Mr. B- as I walk back from the school bus stop this morning at 8:30. I've got a cup of coffee in my hand, he has a can of Miller Lite. His voice always surprises me. It's a mid-range, well-tempered voice, reasonable and kind. But I've overheard snatches of thinly veiled racist--or at least xenophobic--conversation with the other men on that stretch of block.

I don't know what these guys do. Most are not old enough to be retired; most appear hale enough to not be on disability... though one can never tell. They lean on the window-frames of each others' 12-year-old cars, drive small loads of discarded household goods from one street to another, talk neighborhood politics--the old kind, about people; not the new kind about historic designation and housing in-fill and clean-up days.

Mr. B-'s greeting interrupts and caps my catalog of sounds I had been compiling as I walked:
1. The high "ping" of a real bell. A kitchen timer for someone's toast, maybe, singing out the front door into the world. This is why I love the city; the borders between private and public break down, but not usually so much as to be disturbing.
2. Blue jay scolding a cat.
3. Homeless itinerant workers having a breakfast of cigarettes in the alley. Their itinerancy is in question, as they've lived in our neighborhood's alleys for over a year now.
4. City bus roaring down P- St.
5. Robins
6. Whiny snargle of an ancient minivan engine warming up.
7. Scrape of a front door closing as the dark-haired girl goes to work.
8. "Good morning"