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January
2 , 2006. It was quite damp outside by the time the rain let up enough to make a wait for the bus feasible. I had a large duffel bag and a slightly smaller drawstring duffel to lug to the laundromat, packed full of the clothes I wear the most. I was most looking forward to the socks. I was getting down to those last few pair - you know, the ones that have gone a bit wonky with age. Perhaps one sock is stretched out and slouchier than the other, or maybe both socks have been washed so many times that the cotton feels dry and tough against the skin. They're not quite in the doghouse, but they're not the soft and perfectly-stretchy socks that are still sorta fluffy on the inside, the ones that make putting on boots a pleasurable experience. I went over to the donut place once the clothes were in and swirling around. Got myself a froofy iced latte thingy. It was very sweet, and I sipped it as Telemundo blared from the TV mounted from the ceiling. I dug out the monstrous all-in-one edition of Bone that I got for Christmas, and started diving right into it, reminding myself to not get too lost in case the wash cycle should finish, and dryers were available. Eh, the laundry finished without incident. Folded, piled, stuffed. And then, the bus again. If I had a little wheelie cart like a little old lady doing her grocery shopping, it would've been a decent walk. However, lugging these over-packed duffels was not a good idea, especially with it being so drizzly out. As I crossed the street to wait, I realized that I was walking on the very sidewalk featured in the photo above. It was a bit jarring, especially since I think I literally hadn't walked on that particular piece of sidewalk in 20 years or so. I stood at the bus stop where three major streets intersect, and I tried to look at it anew: what would a tourist/newcomer think of this place? Everything was very grey, what with the rain and the month and the white stone facades all dirty from pollution and snow-salt upsplash from the streets. Would it seem too noisy, something overwhelming so that one's breath would get caught in the throat in a thrilling half-fear of urban in-your-faceness? Would everything seem decayed, or new? Would it seem tacky, or clever? Familiar? Rough? Attractive? A man waiting to my left rolled a cigarette, the tobacco amber-colored and like a tumbleweed. He tamed it, though, with a practiced hand. The man to my right had headphones on, and did this half-singing, half-whistling thing that served as a pretty decent soundtrack to the chilly rain, the wet pavement, my cold fingers, the smell of pizza and burritos from across the street. It occurred to me that I am almost constantly aware of my surroundings, noting things, saving them for later. I have millions of imaginary red threads tied to my pinkies, to remember the look of this, the feel of that. It's not that these things gloss over in my mind, that they aren't seen for what they are. It's just that the conglomerate sound that comes forth from the noise is home, home, home. go
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