it’s a very beautiful evening in Spring. Everything alive was constrained for months by cold, darkness, fatigue. Now, it’s hot and sunny for days on end and nature seems unleashed. Flowers are blooming, leaves are coming out and people are walking around in shorts and sleeveless tops. There’s a sort of benign hopefulness, an easygoing good nature that floats around. Most of the time.
I went to exercise class and to the National Library that is close to my Pilates Studio. I noticed really nice graffiti on the walls of buildings in the alley backing onto he library. I took a few pictures. I smirked to see a beautiful piece incorporating the names of many famous writers that ended up with a commercial sign for “danseuses nues”. There, so much for your high falautin’ culture. People will do what they want. There were a lot of good pieces down the alleyway and I walked all the way down. I was surprised to see a needle disposal box and wondered what went on in the park adjoining the library. The long distance bus terminal is across the street too. A lot of desperate people come out of there. It was a lovely day and I was in a good space. I almost tripped over a young man sitting under a portrayal of children’s’ literature. He hardly noticed. He was ernestly seeking a good vein and tutting over some pretty nasty tracks on his arm. I left quickly and went into the library to find my books, my films, my music. I left that boy next to the big palace of culture, of civilization. I left him without a word because I was afraid of him. Truthfully, I think he would not have welcomed my interruption. That is not the point, is it? I’m sitting out in my quiet little back yard. Flowers are out, birds are singing and nesting. I have plenty to read and to listen to. I have plenty to write. I am a little disturbed by my neighbors who never stop ” improving” the adjoining yard, but there is no accounting for taste. I like my little bucolic wilderness. They like little Las Vagas. We all have our peace and quiet here in our ordinary neighborhood. But that boy under the mural? What is he doing tonight.? Did he find a good vein? Did he throw his needle I. The box ” reserved for that purpose”? Is his soul quiet tonight? Is mine?