R-I-D-E I wanna ride

Bike ride after 2 days of rain. Paths cleared, cars wiped of bird leavings. The ghostly golf course soon to be turned into condominiums. We talked brightly and exchanged views on appropriate bike gearing. The temperature was on the right side of cool. The wheels rolled free of friction, spinning for their own contentment. The handlebars felt solid in my hands. The brakes squeaked as I slowed down the hill. The minivan gave us a wide margin as it slowed down. Everything was in harmony.

This old town's filled with sin

Overheard:

Person 1: Yeah, it's funny, if you ask for something they give it to you!
Person 2: That's all this town is!

This town? What are you, Mark Leibovich?

Walking with a ghost

Slept downstairs to stay out of the heat. The basement is full of shadows and has no doors. I kept imagining a ghost who would walk in. I looked for it, anticipated. It never came. I scared myself.

Who does not love women, wine, and song....

Remains a fool! But may we add, anyone who automatically disdains box wine will soon be parted from his treasure. A 3 liter box of wine gives you the equivalent of four standard 750 ml bottles, usually at a very good price compared to buying by the bottle. I got a box of Big House Cabernet, a nice discount label from California, for about 20 bucks yesterday in DC. Why pay more for bottles? Because a box is uncouth? I beg to differ. A box is economical, and probably better for the environment in the long term. If I don't pay for the glass in the bottles, I come out ahead. And you can always go for glass when the occasion calls for it. My kingdom for a good box of wine!

things we have

A beautiful day in our beautiful nation's capital, Washington, D.C. An unseasonably warm and rich day. A canister of pineapple chunks. Concert tickets. Roasted beets and leftover pizza.

An afternoon spent stewing

The kitchen is heating up gradually and it's on account of me! Stew day is here. We have pounds of carrots, potatoes, cabbage, and broth. We have gas (as of Thursday). We have a drafty, commodious new house to fill with smells of cooking. What better than stew to solve these problems?

The container of Trader Joe's Carrot Ginger Soup in the pantry was calling my name too (and the expiration date was calling 8/9/2012, more pointedly).

The color orange has figured prominently in my life at home of late. It's A's favorite color. Orange is quite visually attractive, I've decided spontaneously after being exposed to it so much. A stew of sweet potatoes, carrots and curry powder; are we detecting a theme here?

With the lights out

Power outage for 24 hours that had me thinking of dystopian fiction. What if we lived in a land of constant shortage? How would I provide for my unborn children? We're incredibly reliant on electricity. I counted myself accomplished just to make coffee this morning by the elementary step of pouring boiling water over grounds in a filter. This can't mean anything but that I'm coddled. Resolved: to find ways to decrease my reliance on cars and electricity, even in this suburban Maryland environment. I might have to become a pedestrian activist, or an activist pedestrian, or both.

Clear some space out so we can space out

I'm about to accuse myself of being insincere- would anyone like to defend me?

We took the long way so we could have another

She spends her money on cigarettes and such, well I love her and cigarettes so much, I love her and cigarettes so much

The Train Carrying Jimmie Rodgers Home

Trains have this certain majesty that you can't deny. They're long and sleek, though they lumber. Trains have the quality of being undeniable, too. You couldn't easily stop a train, unless it wanted to stop itself (giving the train agency here, but you understand what I mean). They represent ordered grace, militaristic in clean lines of gray and chrome. Not low and rounded like the subway cars; broad and tall, noble, with long miles to go before they'll sleep in rail yards in Woburn, Melrose, Fitchburg, and Lowell. The engine's thrum and steel wheels bumping over rails accrete into a heartbeat that the train has. Long, low, falling-away note of the horn gives finality to the journey, like the trip a president's body takes home by rail. Sometimes the train will shudder, shivering, maybe in the icy damp. We spend so much time with it, we'd hope to consider it a friend.

Yet another short post about trains

-I am the pointed sweatshirt hood of the hardscrabble Lynn youth. Slightly starched, and improbably towering, I have become an entity unto myself, shark-like and telling of dozens of seamy dives and two-room tumbledown apartments I have seen, you haven't

-I am the train tunnel into Salem—dimly lit, always nightbound. Too ramshackle for the gleaming cookie-cutter housing complex not 100 yards away

-I am the shining water at Beverly, bright expanse, unfrozen, spared by brackishness. Boats bob, ready for pleasure or lobstering. See the mirror of the sun, with an orange sheen flashing flat across the wavelets

Then 'tis like the breath of an unfed lawyer. You gave me nothing for't

If I did not pursue this, I would regret it always. This means there are no options. Varying tempos, and crescendos, and changing rhythms, yes, but the course is plotted. There is no going back from here. I won't be a fisherman telling stories about the big one that got away.

I will not brook regrets. I will not carry them with me.

I love those conversations where you get turned on to the limitless possibilities that lie ahead. They keep happening now, with all sorts of different people. They spark me. I could do anything. Anything!

I'm plastic.

You just have to make sure you're not overwhelmed by the possibilities. Sometimes I have to ask her to give me three choices, and then I can pick. Me knowing that I won't be offending anyone, and relieved of the burden of winnowing, that is the efficient me.