Sunday, March 12, 2000 – sunday morning

. . . bring the dawn in. SSSSLLLLLAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!! My closet door, for no apparent reason bursts open at 5:26am, Miles the cat is totally freaked out by it. I was in the middle of a dream where I was visiting Anne and I think in the dream we were on some hillside looking up and there was something weird about the moon. OK, so not to worry, I get up and check my email and phone just in case there are any weird messages or anything of the sort. I don’t know why, but usually when these sort of things happen it involves either birth, death, or sex. Or all three. (They are all related of course)

Back to sleep.

The phone rings, I get up to answer it and it’s Jasmine who wants me to come over with coffee. It took us probably half an hour to hatch our plan on how I was going to get there without spilling the morning fuel everywhere. Despite PLAN A being my taking the number 3 bus from the Square at 10:29am, I finally decide to take her bike, stop by the Co-op and get the much sought-after caffeine along with some other chow.

The air is brisk but not cold. The sun is out and I pedal along with a huge ear-to-ear on my face. There’s almost a ridiculous air to all this. It’s nice to be outside and getting away from downtown. Stop by the co-op, I somehow manage to not only stuff the baguette into my backpack (bread folds ya know) but also wrap the cups of coffee in enough plastic bags (and the Co-op loves that plastic, gotta have it!) to keep it from spilling. Back outside and once on this 27″ Girl’s Schwinn, I pedal pedal pedal my way . . .

Down Willy Street

Up the bike path.

I notice for the first time, an old mural painting on the Blue Plate Diner. It’s of a little kid and a huge hamburger. Mostly faded. Well done. I laugh at the fact that I’ve been past here a thousand times and I just now noticed it. What else?

The streets are mostly quiet.
I’m about to cut across just as some idiot pulls up behind me and slows and won’t pass me so I can make a guilt-free crossing. I shake my head, smile back at the car, and cut right onto Jasmine’s street. Down past the quaint east side houses. Past the bricks and flower beds and yard ornaments and tricycles, into the driveway, bring the bike up through the doorway, up the stairs and there is Jasmine.

She’s just finishing up getting the house tidied. Her Mom was coming up from Chi-town to pick her up.

Coffee time! We slip into the LET’S REINVENT THE AGES mode and somewhere along the way I find out her father passed on to the Other Side on September 14th. My Mom died on September 15th. I guess there are only 365 days in a year (except leap years).

Frannie is gone already. She flew to Boston(?) to meet up with Chaz, her darling. Chaz if you’re reading this, you are fortunate to have the admiration of such an incredible lass.

OK, so Frannie took her guitar with her and there’s none in the house. So I can’t play the song I wrote yesterday. That’s OK. No, it’s OK. Seriously, it’s OK. Alright, it sort of sucks . . . I should have posted it on the net so I could play it on their computer. That’s OK, it’s still rough.

Jasmine’s Mom arrives with her boyfriend and we head out. Such wonderful people! Since she’s German I managed to get a few coherent sentences auf Deutsch out. Jeez I need to practice! So many languages so little time!

Off to the Dew Drop Inn. The place is pretty happening. We’re waited on by a familiar woman who Jasmine later tells me is joining the Peace Corps and heading to Africa.

Jasmine and I slip into our Dew Drop Margarita mode. “It’s not just for breakfast any more.” Her mom is tres cool. Quite in tune and open. Very very wonderful people!!!!

We part ways. I’m a little sad to see yet another friend leave for a week. But I’m happy she gets to have a week off.

Home, home again. (Sometimes) I like to be here when I can.

Liz had called. She’s still a bit sick. In fact everyone is either busy, gone, sick, or not in the mood. Won’t anyone come out to play? hehehehehehe

nap time

Still nothing really to do. Oh I take that back, there’s plenty to do. But sometimes it’s nice to be around people. This is one of those days. The neighbors have some tunes on that sound more like a shop vac. No, it’s not a Fishman solo, it’s actually sounding like a shop vacuum. OK, I guess it IS a shop vac. Hehehehehehe, the beat was coming from the other side of the house.

Are we bored yet?

Grey clouds overhead
raise the ceilings
raise the dead
midnight overture slams open doors
dripping sweat from my pores

Have we been dreaming of being alive?
or living in a dream?
all times are the same
all places are one
you feel what is real
until you reel from what you feel.

LATIN JAZZ NIGHT There’s this incredible little hopping scene going on every Sunday night just a few blocks from where I live. It’s the Redbird where the Tony Castenada Trio was jamming jamming jamming. The bar kept filling up and the energy kept swelling. Felt like the place was going to explode from the amount of vibe in there. It was great, but we left early (Sparky, Shaggy, and I). No one familiar was there. Home by midnight-thirty. The drummer was phenomenal. Actually, so was the bass player. And the keyboardist had these cascading scales over rhythms which created this aural moire pattern with the other two instruments.

Two sax players, a hollow-body guitarist who could take it over the top, another percussionist and a flute joined the fray and then it became so much the walls started shaking and booty started waggin’. Monday well on its way, we darted out fairly soon since this was contagious and it was going to be a long night if we let it grow on us too much.

Snow in the middle of the night. Not cold. Night large wandering snowflakes more dancing than falling to the ground. Half life in the seconds upon contact with the ground, it was a crystalline night under the reddish haze of the sodium street lamps.

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