In their downtime some people like to watch sports. Some people like to sew. Some people like to forage for frogs while frolicking in the forest. I like to pretend I’m a medieval composer while Maggie puts on her cinematographer cap and we’re driving around town in the sprinkling rain.
Not long ago I was in the 7-Eleven in Geneva. There was maybe three other people waiting to pay. One of the guys was five-ish years younger than me and barely-stand-up drunk. He was having a party of one, talking to himself, and talking to the other people even if they were doing their best to: not encourage him. To ignore him. And wait out his staggering around non-sense. Like when you tough out a deep cleaning at the dentist.
7-Eleven had their ambient classic rock playing over the ceiling speakers and the drunk dude turned around and asked the guy in front of me, “Who sings this song? Damn, this is good. I can’t remember what they’re called.” The second guy is like, “I don’t know who sings it” in all out pretty much disgust with drunk dude.
I was softly clanging around on the MIDI keyboard the other night and came up with a couple of melodies. I couldn’t really find any words to go with them so I decided to look up what was in the public domain.
I knew this guy once. Well, I still kinda sorta know him now but we’re not really friends. I’ll call him Tim even though his name wasn’t Tim.
Why am I thinking about Tim on this 4th of June? Because these awful hostilities would come out of his mouth. And sometimes they were directed at me and sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes I could tell their direction and sometimes I couldn’t.
Driving to work this morning I was letting my minder wander, just absentmindedly thinking about random stuff. As I do. And today I was thinking that I used to drop a lot of hints. Boxes of styrofoam peanuts without anything tangible inside.