To write at length, with an arm's length of detachment.
Today... yeah.
I pulled six-foot weeds from around the house this morning, met with the landlord, and walked to the corner store for cigarettes, apple juice and a donut.
Then began re-stringing my 12-string guitar.
Shandra called, and Sarah and I headed over to the Walker to meet her and her SO. Walked through about the top half of the exhibits before they had to leave for the Bob Dylan concert in Rochester. They might be back for the Bob Dylan/Foo Fighters (acoustic) show in October.
Ate at Leaning Tower in Uptown, and waited for an unnecessarily long time for our check, causing Sarah to be late for class, a class she didn't know she didn't have.
I finished re-stringing my guitar, and tried out a few old songs.
And now I type this.
The house looks a little better now from the outside without those tall weeds. I hadn't done anything like that in a pretty long time. It strangely felt good.
Rent's going up seventy-five dollars in September. I told him about issues with work currently on mine as well as Sarah's so hopefully he isn't too strict on us being a little late with the balance of rent. There are individuals I owe money to, and it's a daily ritual to assess the situation to see who gets money when.
Welfare or some agency like it apparently now writes checks or vouchers out to recipients that dictate what sorts of food they can buy, right down to the type of juice and bread. I witnessed this at the corner store. I like the guy who runs the store.
My hands and feet and hair had dirt in them, I liked that as well.
I chatted with Jesse a bit on messenger, and discussed doing Todd's "Out of Element" series, a series of shows where electronic-oriented bands perform acoustically, something I am excited about. I plan to pick up the cello for this. Sarah said that her friend June could possibly help me out in this endeavor.
I took out the guitar and started to disassemble it, in time for Sarah to come home and watch, as she was curious about what all goes into such a process.
That's when Shandra called.
I washed my feet and hands, and Sarah and I drove down to the Walker. I expressed that I had more trepidation than she had, and she gets nervous meeting new people. I just don't show it. We met them out by the conservatory. She still smells like I remember. She gave me a belated birthday present, a book by Mimma Balia called Ruskin's Rose: A Venetian Love Story. I didn't need to have read the book to understand. We walked over to where he was and shook his hand, exchanging pleasantries, studying him all the while. He paid for our admission; a pleasant surprise. She asked about The Eighth project, and told me not to downplay it so. I had secretly wished she were around to be a part of it, and she openly reflected my wish in as many words. We toured through some of the more experimental "moderny" art, where the expression was there, but the elitist in me was critical. I kept my thoughts to myself. We moved to the photography of this one woman who eventually committed suicide. I recognised some of the prints. They were out of time at this point; the main reason for the trip was to attend a Bob Dylan concert in Rochester later this evening. We bid our farewells, perhaps best not to extend it in any sort of blubbery fashion. I think Sarah sensed this.
On our way back to the car, we stopped in the gardens for a bit, where there's a square plot of land and stone benches with bits of words engraved in them. Some sad, some witty, some inspiring. It was at this point my sister called to relate some frustration about her splitting up with Aaron, her boyfriend/fiance of six years.
Sarah called in sick for her teaching since she was not feeling well, and needed her strength for class later. We went to eat at Leaning Tower in Uptown, having pasta as I read to her out of the City Pages about media piracy on the internet, sharing interesting tidbits. The waitress was an older lady, possibly in her early sixties who was nice enough, but neglected to bring us our check promptly. A family came in with lovely-looking girls, the younger of the two had adopted the physical mannerisms of her mother, which I found amusing.
We finally left and raced home, where Sarah took off for class. I mucked around a bit, then Sarah returned, finding out that there was no class on Thursday. So I finished re-stringing my guitar, and played a few songs I wrote a long time ago. I feel a bit rusty on them, a few more tries and I should feel more comfortable about it. I went to look for an old demo recording of one of the songs, but couldn't find it. Instead I came across emails from past romances and past mistakes. I started to read some, but abruptly changed my mind.
And now, I think I am just going to write out my check for rent, set it where I can find it in the morning, and head up to bed, prepare myself for the gauntlet that is my work for the weekend. Perhaps I'll read, or maybe catch some Conan on the tele. Or maybe nothing at all.
I wish I could crack my neck, I'd feel a lot better.