Maybe I've read Blood Meridian too many times, but it seems like I spend an inordinate amount of my mental space evaluating people for their scalps. Haha, I just put myself on a watchlist somewhere (Haha, I'm a white male with tangential access to firearms. You go to the top of the list.) More seriously, I ended work at the farm because A: I'm old and everything hurts, B: elementary nighttime janitor season starts soon, and C: I wanted to fuck off and go see my youngest's godmother, T, and spend some recuperative, asylum type, sanatorium style time in a yurt in Homer. My god was that good. Making fire. Eating halibut. Spending copious amounts of unreplenishable monies churning through foods and goods. Living it up in stupendous crashes. That has nothing to do with the nebular dust cloud that emitted from my farm hat upon the bar table when I dropped it there after a shift under a brutal July sun that is pictured above. Anyway, upon leaving the refuge of T's graciously provided lodgings, I told her that visiting her place felt like coming home and I hope that sentiment held the weight I wished it to impart.
Haha, the VA just denied my claim that military service really fucked my mental health. But that's got nothing to do with these lettuces that we cultivated for our community gardening project, Grow Palmer. This (the VA claim, not the lettuces) will likely have employment ramifications for me in the future and, I fear, conspire to make things not as I wish them to be. But right now, in the cafe, before I descend to the bar for NASCAR, this consideration does nothing to detract from the awe of living, sitting near an attractive man with great teeth and a table of women ten years my senior discussing something and taking direction from jots lined out in a spiral, college ruled notebook and a couple standing, making decisions about seating, shielded from the world with surgical masks and the mother and adult daughter deciphering the Sunday (Haha, what a fake designation of "time".) crossword.
Yesterday, after a public reading of some truly insane shit to celebrate the corporatist fuck stains that comprise the UAA administration's decision to ignominiously axe the MFA program, we went out for Korean food. I ate ox feet in a soup. Sad is not the right word to describe the reading's venue, held on the Anchorage museum's lawn but I can see, in a certain filter, how one might think of the proceedings as such. The readers persisted in spite of airplane, motorcycle, 18 wheeler (Haha, no one outside of Mississippi calls them that.), seagull, SUV thumping, truck revving noise with a certain gravitas, like eulogizers, as they read. I came with the crazy, but it was well received and then I watched A read and fell in love like some swooning teen. A priest has entered the cafe and I feel a joke is about to conspire but where is the rabbi accompanying? (Haha, I'm mentally infirm.) But that has nothing to do with the image of these boys up on Archangel rocks situated above. It was a grand hike and, much like the cafe and the priest, evidence of the fragility of existence.
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Just this morning, before I departed on my LARPing attempt at being alive, A told me that a chancery court in Tennessee ruled that a church affiliated establishment that received state funding could display signage that informed patrons that customers of the Jewish persuasion were automatically denied service. (Haha, the courts are really wildin' out these days.) That has nothing to do with this stove in beaver dam that we had the absolute pleasure of trodding upon during our Archangel stroll pictured above. Nor does it have anything to do with the scene of a woman ladened with bread loaves and chasing a toddler from the cafe. But maybe it makes the point I'm aiming at? (Haha, no son.)
