When it occurred to me that this was to be the first Friday nothing was going on in four weeks, I have to admit I was a bit shocked. No historical presentations, birthdays, free film showings with receptions, or concerts. To have such a day free, which really equates to something of a socially constructed Tuesday in my personal construct seemed a little queer. It didn't last long; Fridays are Fridays, just another day. I have come to appreciate having my free days in the middle of the week.
Weekends, like straw cowboy hats, are for tourists...
It was a lovely spring afternoon. Early sixties; y'know, the Beatles, JFK, and the beginnings of the space race. Well, maybe not so much, but that's what the mercury read in quaint 'Merican degrees on the fahrenheit scale. Outside of professional obligations, nothing was going on and nowhere to be.
I have a friend who once thought that would be a great way to set up some dysfunctional dramatic macabre; nothing going on. No damage control, no comedy, drama, tragedy, irony, agony, ecstasy, or other form of complication. This is the same cat who nightmares about mundanities and rings me up for what he perceives and so names passionate conversation.
One of the grand hypocrisies of my existence is, despite my refusing to allow myself to fall into bordom and endeavoring to live life as a series of grand adventures, I do not do drama or complication. Fuck that noise. If I want drama, I read Shakespeare, and watch French films if I want complication. When such occasions arise, even and especially if someone tries to drag me into it, I go in the general direction of away. Quickly. It is a sad testimony the amount of former friends and lovers I have because of that, but I suppose it's not my fault; I did warn them, and I do not say such things to hear my head rattle.
I came home and put my whore red kettle on the burner. A phone call to my father confirmed my family's not getting together for Easter, which is not overly heartbreaking, if, for no other reason, my heart has no bones. I invited my daughter up for a Sunday dinner of Greek-herbed lamb and potatoes. Maybe one of my bottles of tempranillo I've had squirreled away for a bit. Nothing special, but I'll get to see my girl for the first time in a month.
The brazen hussy of the stovetop began her siren's song and I set my tea to steeping. Out on the porch, I sat down with one of the three books I'm reading presently; the one with a Buddhist monk and an astrophysicist discussing quantum mechanics and impermanence. A little light reading on a warm spring day with a cup of young green hyson tea.
Clouds started to roll in and the breeze kicked up. Omens of a minor disturbance, which may bring rain to our Sahel below ten-thousand feet for the first time this year. Reaching a stopping point, I headed indoors. Jazz was on the radio. My daughter set us up a Netflix profile and I've been slowly reacquainting myself with the rollicking adventures of Farscape.
A little later, I'll start up pizza crust. See, Friday night is pizza night at the House of Owls and Bats. That factor makes the day remarkable, I suppose. Otherwise, it'd be just another day.