Observations: March 19 – 23

This song is so appropriate for some reason [I have yet to figure out].

Noticing a used hardcover book of 300+ pages–a collection of collections–of e e cummings’ poetry sitting near the register.

***   ***   ***

The United States Congressman, representing Central New York, spilling coffee upon himself.  (More on that later… Tuesday.)

***   ***   ***

The bookshop keeper says something, but I’m not fully paying attention.

Me:  [pointing at the book] “Yeah, this is a good grab.”

Bookshop Owner:  “I said, would you like a bag?!?”

Me:  [taken back]  “Oh, I’m sorry.  No thanks.”

***   ***   ***

Finding two used Steve Martin books, one autobiographical, in one day.

***   ***   ***

Wondering if the same song came up on someone else’s iPod at the same moment, and wondering if they are singing along with it as well.

***   ***   ***

The couple entered the cafe, and their conversation was interrupted by immediate confoundity in regard to the business of the afternoon.  A congregation had congested the small vicinity on the Friday afternoon, and it was inevitable that taking a seat at the bar would have to do.  Despite the impracticable and uncomfortable arrangement, no one would like to be sitting at just a bar and next to the path of pedestrians–leading to the split level of seating below and the utility station behind them–the two made the best of their spot.  They smiled.  They shared headphones, one bud in one ear each, and they worked.  At one instance, he smoothly threw his arm over the back of her chair and against her upper back.  The movement, the display, neither came across contrived or practiced, but it was a natural reaction to raw human adoration.

***   ***   ***

The odor of musty pages.

***   ***   ***

The woman, the one wearing the white blouse tucked into a pair of dark jeans, was surrounded by six men.  Her blonde hair and boisterous habit of talking loud designates her as a life of the party.  She sits, sways on one gentleman’s lap; the relationship is unknown, but she shifts as if riding one of the mechanical bulls, and she, being close enough, rests her elbows upon the bar.  “Oh, you guys don’t want me to leave!”  The statement is gloated.  “Where would the fun in that be?”

With the exception of the guy upon the bar stool, the guy whose lap she is sitting in, he’s having the time of his life, the surrounding grew of males of various ages loom awkwardly.  The younger two of the group look around the pub, pretending to view the various television screens that display the games.

***   ***   ***


The zombies were growing abundant and seemingly more vicious.  The crew secured themselves in a once abandoned home of what felt to be owned by a former paternal relative.  The house had diminished, exfoliated to practically ratty boards nailed around a frame.  The environment is various shades of blue with some white and some black.  The field surrounding the house was soon cleared of what seemed to be the last of the zombies.  Lives, unknown people in the group, were lost; there was little to care about that except those close to those and affected most.  For what I knew, I was alone in a group of survivors, people to be known as strangers.  It was simple to break away from the place and with a band of the unknown as the sun was rising.

Across farmland we walked, ran through various lengths of grass.  Over a few miles a barn was reached.  Daylight arrived and early afternoon had peaked.   From the distance, approaching from behind us, darkening clouds infiltrated.   For a rural area, a fair amount of people arrived at the handful of produce stands outside of the barn.  The sky darkened faster than anticipated soon after, and rain began to pelt down.  Seeking over, everyone headed into the barn.

Inside, the wooden facility was much larger than it appeared.  The room upon entering was vast and open.  The following room, one door–an actual door–per room to lead into each adjacent room.  The next room contained produce.  The next room contained various wares, including umbrellas.  As each room was entered, a change would be present; the previous rooms would remain the same and immune to the changes.  The walls of the barn progressively grew without knowing or seeing them grow, stretched; hence, the continuation of rooms.  Wooden doors between rooms turned into facility/interior doors with doorknobs instead of the previous wooden latches.  The horizontal wood boards of the barn turned into vertical in the second room.  The in the fourth room the wooden walls had been replaced by house siding:  vertical and narrower panels when compared to the wider wood boards.  Eventually the walls converted to standard, plain walls.   The barn turned into a facility, more or less a school.  In a foyer, large windows looked out to a large patio with a pool or large fountain.  An arena was directly next to it.  Grass and flowers surrounded the focal point.

The sun was shining again.

Clothes had changed from ratted attire to slacks, a tucked-in button-down shirt, and a tie.  Clean-shaven was my face.

Two people caught my eye.  He was about my height, and she was a tad bit shorter with hazelnut hair (or was it dirty blond?).  I stood in the foyer, unsure what to do next.  Long hallways stretched to the right and left of me when facing the outside.  One hallway, which was separated by the one and only door from the previous room–save knowing that it would only lead to a hallway once it was reopened–stayed shut behind me.  The couple kept walking by, moving together, but he seemed more dependent upon her decisions meanwhile leering at me.  She really paid no mind to him, as if he was her dog on a leash.

At one point, contact was finally made.  While leaning against a wall, the two walked by–the guy was second in line.  She spoke first:  “Remember me?  I’m the one with the yellow coat.”  That was that.  She was cheerful and pleasant, almost happy to see me.  There was a pause that was noticed, a hesitation where the smile quickly faded from her face but quickly recovered itself.  It was that moment where she took a quick, deep breath, and it was noticeable in her shoulders.  Instead of a lapdog, the guy appeared to be a fly that she was too tired of swiping her hand at.

She left; however, the pest remained with me.  He stood there for a good moment, making me feel uncomfortable and stabbing me with his eyes.  Finally, he spoke.  “She’s my girlfriend.  You can’t have her.”  I explained to him that I understood that, and I wasn’t hitting on her or planning on asking her out, highlighting that she addressed me and my politeness in responding.  In my head, I was telling myself that they did not act like a couple.  Save her trying to avoid him and not pay attention to him.  He sat upon the table next to us, and leered.

The young woman reappeared, but then she’d walk by.  She would enter one door, return from another door but down the hall–in similar fashion as cartoons, right Scooby?  She would nonchalantly lock eyes and/or smile as she walked by.  If the guy was more aware at a given walk-by–it was inexplicable how she picked up that he wasn’t at his 100 percent lock-on mode–she would look at me, look at him, but return the gaze to me.  The guy would get annoyed, but not say anything to contest.

And no.  I do not remember her.

17 thoughts on “Observations: March 19 – 23

  1. I love the smell of old books. And Steve Martin, The Pleasure of my Company. I could read it a million times. In fact, I probably will eventually.

      1. I think I am only on 3. But I’ll get there. I have some other things to read too.

  2. Do you watch The Walking Dead? Is that why you dream of zombies? I watch the show and it comes on Sunday nights, which is why I dreamed there was a zombie coming up out of my shower drain last night.

      1. Yes the zombie noise started while I was in the shower with that gurgling throat sound they make. When I looked down, there was an arm up to the elbow coming out of the drain. That would be why I didn’t shower this morning.

    1. You may.

      I’ve adapted this idea from F. Scott Fitzgerald, and this “series” began after I read “The Crack-Up.” I think you may have saw those posts.

      It’s bad enough I keep notepads handy wherever I go. However, this little Sunday reminder is almost like a meditation. Having to write, share allows me to remind myself to be more aware and open-minded.

    1. It’s been happening more frequently. It’s probably having to do with my complete devotion to The Walking Dead, or a subconscious feeling that I’m surrounded by boring people.

      I am banking on TWD, because the latter is highly, highly doubtful.

      You caught me while commenting on your recent post. Sorry I’m just getting around to it.

  3. Perhaps you shall meet a comely young women soon and say to yourself, ‘yes. Yes! She is the one from my dream.’

    Our Syracuse Orange was a sorry lot last night, was it not, Chris?

    1. It’s interesting that you say that, Mark. I apologize if this comes out too long. This girl in the dream was not wearing a coat, nor did I know what it looked like. This was passed off.

      Yesterday, I was at Freedom of Espresso in Franklin, the usual spot when not bouncing around. When I was sitting there yesterday, a green coat caught my eye, and it sent my mind for a small loop. The coat belongs to a pretty young lady, someone I talk to on a regular basis, but in small doses. Yet–it has been months since the last occurrence–a guy has been seen with her. Not sure if he is her boyfriend, but he is nowhere as leery as the guy in the dream (for comparison).

      However, that coat caused me to ponder a little bit. I felt I would recognize the dream coat (odd to say that) upon seeing it. Who knows?

      Yeah… Our Orange. I’m still upset about the loss. We were not ready to say statements with “next year” just yet. However, the women are still in it to win it.

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