I went to a literary reading last night that was mostly outlaws telling of their vices. I wondered half-jokingly whether my "life story" would make good fiction, or rather, as I've been doing, I need to make fiction out of my life story.
Meanwhile, work is sporadic and the bus rides are long and colorful and a whole entire family, about a dozen people between the ages of 6 and 65, is staying at my house for who knows how long. You learn to be an outsider, it heightens perceptions and can, if unchecked, increase agitations. But you also laugh at yourself for being so concerned.
There are children on the bus, tired workers, tired mothers, drunks with bloody faces, young men on acid who want nothing more than to buy a soda pop with your money. I read the news with less foreboding even though tragedy and devastation occur just as punctually. I read philosophy to get excited about possibility. I read memoirs, poems, short stories. Sometimes I wonder why. I stare into a beautiful face with the warmest, coziest smile I can imagine and I wonder how to saturate the minutes more effectively.
I want to believe everything is a political act.
Since I found that magic garden I've been feeling more hopeful about my neighborhood.
(And I realize I just pimped those garden photos TWICE in one sentence; such is the hyperactive nature of the internet; meta-blogging and so forth.)
Life might not ask for anything more than adding beauty to it. In this case, a garden, a Judeo-Christian archetype par excellence, might just be the ticket.
Meanwhile, I had a fortuitous encounter today with an old friend of mine, a long conversation, a long walk, an inspection of native plants, all after I had just finished up the famous Grand Inquisitor chapter in The Brothers Karamazov. On that note, I was reminded of the following video based on the famous chapter: