Lunchtime "Tragedy"

Pile of veggies on a paper plate, microwave two minutes then stir. 

Oh I should get my phone, I think, maybe play a game or read an article.

But when I get back to my desk, my phone is gone. After searching everywhere, I realize: someone stole my phone.

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One year ago: Motherly Aggression

Two years ago: Slushies are Hard to Make at Home

Three years ago: Truth

Four years ago: If Only I Could Apply This Level of Obsessiveness Elsewhere in My Life

Eight years ago: New York is a Zoo (and she did stop)

Nine years ago: 6-7-08 Playing the Ponies

Optimism

We know the names of dogs, but not their owners, but since the dogs can't talk, we chat with the owners while we play with dogs.

"We just got back from the lawyer's office," says Serge's owner, a friendly older woman, "where we were making out our wills, and I said we should have a clause, right at the beginning, an extra ten-thousand dollars to whoever takes care of the dog."

Serge presses his lean, heavy, gray head into my hand and wags his tail as she continues: "And my husband says, 'Our daughter Wendy loves Serge, so we don't have to do that.'"

"And I say, "Are you saying that Serge is going to outlive us?'"
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One year ago: Missing My Person
Two years ago: Meta-Meta
Four years ago: Chatty. Sorry.
Eight years ago: 6/6/09 - Circle around the park
Nine years ago: 6-6-09 (supplemental)

Gospel of Thomas, Saying 102

Just as the train pulls up, he snakes his way between the woman standing in front of me and the door. He's old, with a cane, shabbily dressed, a ratty baseball cap perched at a distracted angle on top of his balding pate.

I try to give him the benefit of the doubt though, even when the doors open and he shoves his way past the exiting passengers and heads straight for the folding seat in the corner of the train; maybe he needs to sit, I mean, I don't know his life, how much pain he's in.

But instead of folding the seat down and, you know, sitting down to maybe ease whatever's wrong with whatever he needs that cane for, he starts haranguing the car, leaning up against the seat, completely incoherent, maybe not even hurt, just a mean son of a bitch.
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One year ago: It (Really) Begins
Two years ago: Fading
Three years ago: Spin Class Epiphany
Eight years ago: 6/5/09 - Short attention
Nine years ago: 6-5-09

Paranoid

The dog stumbles from one side of the sidewalk to the other, pausing at each little well of dirt that holds a tree. She sniffs past a small empty baggie with a cartoon dog on it emblazoned on it, which claims to contain "potpourri" ("NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION") but which I know for sure once contained synthetic marijuana.

The thought of the desperation and unhappiness required to put something like this in your body gives me heart palpitations, And its cheerful colors and goofy picture makes me nervous, but I stoop to pick it up.

There's more trash on our doorstep, and I start to wonder if someone left it there, like poisonous, sinister gifts - an ancient condom, a package of Cheese Doodles - meant as a curse offering to try to kill the vibe of a good day.
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One year ago: Is There a Ghost in My House (Pt. 2)
Two years ago: Nothing's Free
Three years ago: Dangers of an Audience
Eight years ago: 6/4/08 - Some Days
Nine years ago: 6-4-08 Shaving

Sassy Commitment

Everyone's out in the greenmarket at the entrance to the park, a friendly sun shines cheerily in a Disney blue sky, a delicious breeze ruffles hair and fur, playfully snatches hats off heads and sends them tumbling toward attractive strangers, and overall people are flashing just defiant amounts of skin at each other via shorts and muscle shirts.  Even the volunteers at the composting collection station are feeling sassy.

"Let's put it this way:" one says after a friend compliments him on his commitment to the cause, "until every fossil fuel company is defunct, I'll be here, doing my part."

"Oh, I bet you'd still come here," his friend says admiringly.
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One year ago: Still Got Some Life Yet
Two years ago: Out of Practice
Three years ago: Putting Off The Inevitable
Four years ago: Or What to Write Here
Eight years ago: 6/3/09 - Dropped
Nine years ago: 6/3/08 "Antland, Antland, Over All"

Inertia

The old man in the badly fitting blue suit runs by, his shoes flapping urgently on the sidewalk. He's waving frantically, flagging down the bus that just pulled up down the block.

I remember stubbornly walking through the parking lot at Desert Sky Pavilion that winter 25 years ago as my friends urged me to run; walking even though they were running to get in, even though the Grateful Dead had already started playing, the notes of "Dark Star" floating out beneath the blue.

Some people would prefer to miss the bus than run, no matter what the cost.
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One year ago: Foot in Mouth
Two years ago: The Human Condition
Three years ago: Nothitarian
Four years ago: A Sense of Humor Like a Cat
Eight years ago: 6/2/09 - Seriously, it's freaking me out.
Nine years ago: 6-2-08 Fathers and Sons

Trivial

I do my breathing exercises, then I listen to some binaural beats to focus and calm my mind. Lastly, as the suggestion of a friend of mine, I journal for ten minutes, just to get the juices flowing and unlock the hyperverbal part of my brain.

Finally, the familiar theme plays, and we're off to the races: a few easy ones at the beginning ease away the jitters, and then I'm flying through the questions, guessing where I don't know for sure, and answering with assurance where I do.

I finish, and the house is quiet around me, and I feel strangely at peace, while the cat lays next to me, breathing slowly, her white fluffy belly rising and falling, her paws flexing gently in the air, entirely unconcerned with game shows, or trivia, or anything at all.
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One year ago: A Near Miss
Two years ago: Thwarted
Three years ago: Estranged
Four years ago: Bodysurfing Meditation
Eight years ago: 6/1/09 - this happens every once in a while
Nine years ago: 6-1-08 There, but for the grace of God...