July 10, 2022

 A) I wanted to take the weekend off from thinking about a Relationship. Mitch and I went down to San Diego to visit friends and his parents, who were visiting from Washington. Things were going pretty well. I was present with the people involved. I was enjoying myself. I was interested in the books I was reading. But Friday night, I went to bed early and was distracted with stress. Stress concerning the Relationship. I read from an essay collection on my kindle. I got bored with that. I turned to the complete collection of poems by Wislawa Szymborska, a move I pulled often when trying to go to sleep during the Spring and Summer of 2020. She wasn’t grabbing me, but at least the reading was wearing me down. (Feed the woodchipper.) I read: 

Vietnam

“Woman, what’s your name?” “I don’t know.” 

“How old are you? Where are you from?” “I don’t know.” 

“Why did you dig that burrow?” “I don’t know.” 

“How long have you been hiding?” “I don’t know.” 

“Why did you bite my finger?” “I don’t know.” 

“Don’t you know that we won’t hurt you?” “I don’t know.” 

“Whose side are you on?” “I don’t know.” 

“This is war, you’ve got to choose.” “I don’t know.” 

“Does your village still exist?” “I don’t know.” 

“Are those your children?” “Yes.” 

The next poem was too long, so I thought Well, I’m going to sleep.

B) We stayed with our friends Dan and Lynnea the first night. Dan cajoled a story out of Lynnea, about the last time they had visited London. She went to the Tate Modern by herself (Dan not liking art museums), and without telling anyone, took 15mg of THC. It turned out to be too much. She was having a great time until she came to a Rothko. It had a powerful impression on her. She was vibing, connecting, and then she realized that she was looking at a red square. She decided she was too high, having an unfounded reaction to this red square. She panicked. She tried to get out of the museum, but the layout was confusing, and she was too high. She tried to follow the exit signs, but she kept winding up back in front of the red Rothko. She eventually did get out of the Tate and made her way over to a nearby Starbucks. (There was no way she was finding her way back to the hotel.) She texted Daniel, saying that she was sick and needed help. Neglecting to say she was high. He had to rush all the way across London to help her. This was told as an embarrassing story. But I think that was the correct response to seeing a Rothko. She did it right. 

C) Mitch and I took the train to and from an LA Sparks game. The passengers in Los Angeles are spicier than those in Chicgao. Or at least there’s a higher density of spiciness. Mitch saw a tweaker get on with a hand under his shirt, clutching something. Mitch was afraid it was a gun, but it turned out to be a laptop, tucked into the front of the guy’s pants. On the way back, 10 o’clock at night, I saw a person (man? Woman?) get on dressed in a bright sweatsuit, hood up, black sunglasses on. They slouched into a seat behind us. Several stops later. A man got on pushing a red shopping cart. Inside were reusable bags of belongings. Fairly clean, but shopping cart on the train. He was also wearing shades. The person in the sweatsuit stood up and slouched past us. I was worried they might collide with the man and his shopping cart, causing an altercation. I wasn’t sure they even saw him. I realized the person was going for the empty sideways seat – and so was the man with the shopping car. This could be trouble. The two sat on the sideways seat, next to each other, in perfect unison. The person in the sweatsuit put their arm around the man’s shoulder. The man put his hand on the person’s knee. They were wearing matching sandals. Not a word was spoken. Not a look exchanged. 

What the fuck was that?