The Other Atheists

No eggshells, no fake smiles, no forced niceness, no nonsense

Peace and health and cultural exchange have finally got 'round to improving my area. This lovely promotional for understanding and tolerance and whatnot happened at the strip mall that I go to for coffee, ice cream, tobacco and other immoralities I refuse to give up now that I can finally afford them once in awhile, having saved up most of my life for doing without. I have often remarked that it is scary corner to patronize, there are usually beggars, skateboarders, drugdealers, planned parenthood picketers, beadshop customers and other greedy bullying types loitering around there all hours of the day and night. Mostly the thought of beadcraft sorts and abortion haters worries me, this is the first time I have thought of the coffee patrons as real threatening:

drive-thru stabbing

Greatly enamored of the guy with the shovel. Such presence of mind. I like to think if I had been there I'd have risen to the occasion similarly, brandishing a convenient farm implement with one hand, my pistachio ice cream cone with the other, calmly presiding over the sat upon perp while puffing resolutely on a strengthening Nat Sherman filterless. I would have terrified absolutely all that I surveyed. Of course, none would've been the wiser that I was needing the shovel to improve my balance which has been compromised rather badly by my not having QUITE yet emerged from hibernation. Also they couldn't have realized how decrepitly arthritis has me in its grip, not to mention I would opportunely not have whined to the scene at large about my broken or at least contused rib I suffered just last month on Darwin Day and am nowhere near recovered yet from. So, all considered I do wish I'd been there, as it would've been so satisfying to frighten strangers with good reason. 

I shall have to settle for having got to yell at a gal at the grocery store the other day. I had parked my purchases in the cart on the sidewalk and was lugging them from the curb to my hatchback, when I turned back to the cart from one trip there was a young woman helping herself to the remaining groceries in my basket. I was inflamed. This was food we were talking about here (or more accurately weren't, as she appeared from pretty much out of the blue), so you can see why I'd get protective and belligerent over that. "Hey!" I bellowed out in no uncertain terms. Then she turned around and schlepped my canned beans to my car trunk for me, took her ear buds out and explained she was trying to give me a hand with the heavy lifting. Fuck. Do you think she could've asked first, or at least made eye contact before living my life for me? As kindly as she meant it she had no way of knowing she would not be giving some poor geriatric a cardiac at thinking they were being ripped off.

What an awkward age I am and have always been I must say . . .

Now that I am finally grown up enough to uncork things on my own I can drink in private and at my convenience and own diligence. It's pretty comforting and for the most part healthy if you don't count that my eyelids and eye underbags are tons uglier the next day if I overimbibe. Anyway, it probably matters more that I use my favorite glass than what goes in the glass, that's pretty goofy of me. (I also get a little bent if I can't find my favorite spoon, or fork, or if-like-Sheldon-someone tampers cruelly with my very own couch cushion.) The wine glass looks like cut crystal (no idea if it is crystal or just glass though, ha, it's probably from Mexico and has authentic lead in it that's leeching out into me with my every dainty swig), and is the shape that there's a myth of that it was designed to the contours of Marie Antoinnette's boob, to drink champagne from. But I've no idea if it was her left or right boob, though, and I've heard that since then it has been discovered that a flute shaped glass disperses the aroma bubbles better anyways. But in spite of such new and improved drinking sciences and all I still prefer the shallow bowl shaped stemware. Even though it makes for way sloppier sousing, esp for a clumsy sort like me, I still think it's just about the classiest looking luxury I have ever snapped up from a junk shop.

Here's a little whine I tasted several years ago at a restaurant's wine dispensary. All you had to do was slide your wine card through a slot and put your glass under a spigot and depress the corresponding button to your choice. Pretty cool, I like vending machines, but the old fashioned way of accessing booze is still good too, now that I've finally learned how to do it.

Dr. Loosen’s Wurzgarten

Six brick pavement circles

--winter wilted palms between—

each with its gaggle of empty iron chairs,

except for one with only one there

where the late sun nestles, of all places.

Two glasses of Riesling, one for myself

--one waits for my promised lover—

after all these years he is yet sure and true,

both pitiless and fair.

He and I will always have our courtyard ways

and I will want him all my days.

Ghost children, dream children, come to me!

Remember now that spiked-blond son from the Far East,

timid and intrepid turn by turn,

or that second girl-child,

whispering earnestly away to no-one.

Call up if you can that once and future

street waif with her face pressed to the wind.

There is water in the basin but the fountain’s still.

Leaves that are dry and fallen gather eddying and shy,

then dart out from the wall for all to see—

they are like children rushing toward me.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

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