a day

2017 January 26 Thursday

Awake again. Coffee rewarmed from yesterday’s brew that sat on the stove alone for almost twenty-four hours. I wonder if that hurts my stomach. I wonder if coffee hurts my stomach. Maybe I should drink green tea instead. Maybe.

Thursday. The merry maids come today to clean the house, as they do every two weeks. Every fortnight. They make this place so much cleaner.

However, I need to get the kitchen ready for them so they can clean it. Hide all the dishes in the dishwasher. I did a load of dishes the other day and now we are ready for another. I must take out the trash and put the empty wine bottles into the recycling bin. Got to clean the house so they can clean the house. So it goes.

They will clean the bathroom. That is a wonderful service. My heart shivers in gratitude just thinking about it.

Today, after a week of rain, cloud, wet, the sun is finally shining outside, outdoors. A lovely day. Still a bit chilly, but hey, it’s winter. Forty-two degrees the weather internet tag says. Lovely. Crisp. No clouds last night. No clouds this morning. Or at least, none that I can see looking out the window.

If I lift binoculars to my eyes, I can see the snow on Cuyamaca, fifty miles from our home on the edge of freeway valley.

Last night I dreamt I saw the mountains. There. In the east. They looked larger. I kept trying to remember who they were I mean what were their names there. Even mountains have names and personalities you know. You know. Even “you know” has a personality. Even this typing machine, my little laptop computer, has a name. I remember typewriters and pieces of paper and ink ribbons. Oh dear those were the days. Long, long ago.

How times have changed. How. Times. Change.

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memories of warshingtown x247

 

I was just thinking a few moments ago (it is now almost 9:20 am) that I could not remember exactly where was the building where I worked as a messenger for many months in 1976. It was somewhere south of Pennsylvania Avenue and west of the White House, if I can remember anything accurately. I believe I used to walk to work, from our little attic place up on the corner of 17th and New Hampshire. Down New Hampshire Avenue toward foggy bottom, again, if I remember anything correctly, but I do not remember very much at all – what I remember is working, driving that little white car around DC and the suburbs, picking up and carrying messages and sometimes whole boxes of paper, yes.

And then, much more vaguely, I remember coming back to the office. That was routine, unremarkable, and forgettable. What I do remember is more extraordinary events that took place while I was out in the field, driving, or running in and out of buildings. How people used to sniff at me in elevators, and I would assume they thought themselves so much more high class than I, or at least better smelling. They were perfumed and I was stinky and sweaty from running around and picking up boxes.

Class.