It's Overly Assertive Muscles

Listening to an old fund raiser on WFMU.  It’s like listening to the hotel protest down on the street below from my thirty-third-floor room.  I know it’s good for me. They mentioned a thank you to Charles in Portland OR.  I know who that was.  Should I feel guilty about not contributing to a four-year-old fundraiser?

I was glad to be back at the gym.  Six days in the U.S.  I only made it to the gym once.  Every morning there were critical, must-do things that ate up my idle hours of one hotel morning after another.  Here, home, it’s easy.  By a certain time I know I should be on my way or it will be too late.  I’ve pulled out my big, orange, down coat because it has become November since I was last here and that sounds cold. 

I bought a new head set in SFO.  I try to get the phone to play but the knob keeps popping back out.  The phone is pushing, forcing the flaccid tip back out from whence it came.  Why is this happening again and again?  Can the phone-man fix this audio-vagina with it's overly assertive muscles? 

Biking over the street lights are still on.  Biking home it’s a misty morning.  I am able to take my phone out and take motion photos of the willow leaves on the ground all without dislodging the tip.  And now I’ve slid it back down into my shirt pocket and it all keeps playing.   Just gotta be delicate, right?

“Clea”, the final book of Durrell’s “Alexandria Quartet” isn’t finished.  I made it through half the book on my flight home.  The cover has an improbable blond woman, shuddering with passion.  The kid next to me on the plane asked if it was a romance.  “No.  Literature.”  Sure.  I’m half way through, but I can’t justify spending the day finishing it.  I’ll have to wait before I can start some of these other things I just brought home. 

Monday, 11/05/18