I don't date my journal entries anymore, but I thoughts I'd share this one with the world . . .
One half of the first cup of coffee. Two hummingbirds chase each other in flight in pre-coital foreplay bliss. Richard says I had a dream last night - probably a sex dream as I was moaning and groaning, but I don't remember it. The landlady has left for Home Depot with her Hispanic workers. The world is relatively quiet but for the whine of a distant weed whacker. Sunday morning is no longer sacred. I'm not talking about pers and altars and First Communion. I'm talking about the decency to let people sleep in - to some that is a religion in itself.
Since I've been back from Wyoming, the city seems less abrasive - not completely void of it, just less annoying. Maybe it's because I've lived here long enough to see through the facade or maybe it's because I came back with something from the North - the desire to spend more time outdoors, to support the locals (farmers' markets), to sit still and look, not to be so ridiculously concerned with appearances. Whatever it was, it was good for me, I know that.
The weed whacker encroaches on my territory. In a city, everything must be so well-manicured, from its fauna, to its women, to its vehicles, to its billboards. I will never really fit in - I know this, but I puppet along for the metropolitan adventure of it.
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