Sunday 7 August 2016

Journal # 08.07.16

Quentin he was out on the porch which corners mine, when I went to call for the kids. A few long and lingering whistles is all. I'm sure he's heard me calling many a night before. There's really no need to explain myself which is one of the luxuries of being neighbors. Quentin and I have never met until now. He's pale and stout and dark, and well-spoken, and I have never seen him standing up. He grew up here. He just moved back from Palm Desert or Springs, not sure which. I have a faint interest in Southern California. He tells me the sudden rise of mountains there give a false sense of security and he liked living there, the people were kind.

Seems to me in one month every single apartment next door has turned over, but I could be wrong. I know two of four have. I liked some of the kids who left (and they were all kids), but I don't mind the turnover. Keeps life interesting. Q (he said I can call him Q) is too hungover to make an interview, he says, and puts out his cigarette, picks up his cell phone and calls it off. Some people would never do that. It takes guts to call off an interview. I like him already.

Aside The action won't always be yours. The sidelines are waiting and you will make an interesting cheerleader what with your inflexibility, Einstein. Bicycles resting against one another on the walls. Saturday nights that never end. Distant signals and lone sirens and crossings. Flagpoles without flags. Broken glass gleaming in the streets. A bend in a hose that stopped the water in its pressured tracks. The threads of the faucet are getting wet under the back pressure. I think there are five colors to any head of hair. Two primary, three subtle, and I'd rather not throw it in your face. It is early Sunday morning, after all, and half of you will get a preaching, and half of those won't be in safety of church.

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