the calm atmosphere and minimalist decor... ...soothing, energizing, and nourishing services. ...a cafe', fitness center, spa, family therapy offices, and retail shops...where families can meet a handful of wellbeing needs under one roof. ...PRENATAL OR POSTPARTUM CARE ...more than 40 healthcare providers... ...a lactation specialist...or connect with a doula... ENJOY A MEAL. ...seasonal soup, salmon ginger salad, or berry beauty smoothie. ...family coaching and education. ...a low-stress, encouraging environment. ...family communication, collaboration, and movement... - Colorado Parent 2021
...a sanctuary for inclusivity. ...different types of modalities... ...a safe, brave space... ...we're using...cannabis...to partner with the body. Students have to bring their own cannabis... We also have naked yoga... ...aerial yoga...we have fifteen silks for that class. [One dispensary would] bring their Love products [chocolates and tablets infused with cannabis and [an] aphrodisiac]... - Westword, 10/28-11/3/2021
The store can be called HEAVEN. HEAVEN is where you get whatever you want. Paint stars on the ceiling, suspend fluffy clouds from the walls. Construct planets in the aisles. There should always be a supply of sandals, robes, wings and harps for those who wish to play clerk. Use Mylar on the walls. ...look into your souls and smile. Cover the front with phosphorescent paint When people ask how the store is run, tell them "by the rays of the sun." In a FREE STORE there are no problems, there are only things to do. It is a free forum of theater in which the forces of art battle the forces of garbage. - Hoffman
The Homeless, Hearing Then Have Sex and Scaring the Shit Out of Them
Monday is the 1st. I'm coming home from work in the dark, swinging past a small parking lot off the trail, on the way to a connecting trail. I spot the seat to a two-wheeled vehicle on the cement. Ahead on the trail is parked a motorcycle, which isn't supposed to be on the pedestrian and bike trail. The rider is walking from the bike toward the seat. Upon the following evening, I am again on the way home in the dark. Tonight, I'm at the far end of a bridge, across from a playground by the river. From the other end of the bridge I see a light slowly approach. It's moving at the speed of a pedestrian, but is much brighter than a bicycle headlamp. The light goes off, and another motorcycle emerges, again which is not supposed to be on the trail. Both motorcycles are in close proximity to popular homeless spots I'm familiar with. On Thursday, I am back on the connecting trail to work. I'm coming past a bank of weeds next to some woods. I hear what may be someone having sex. When I turn the direction of the sound, I see two or three homeless tents. Later on, after work, I'm coming down the long street a block from my own. I stayed late again at work and it's well after dark. Someone in a hoodie is perhaps applying tape to a seam, along the side of a Starcraft-style pop-up trailer tent. My headlamp is off as there is no oncoming traffic. I pass her in the dark when I hear her drop something. She appears to notice me all of the sudden. I hear a female voice say, "Oh, you scared the shit out of me." Some thirteen hours and twenty minutes later, I'm coming right back through here, headed the opposite direction. The woman is standing in the very same spot, now in daylight. She appears to be adjusting a tarp across the roof of the tent.. I think the screens in the tent all have their covers unzipped, which I presume are on the inside, exposing the interior to the outside air. Overnight was in the 30s F. The woman speaks to someone who I presume is inside, explaining she is "trying to figure this out." She quickly loses patience with a disembodied male voice on the other side of the screen, conveying that she will punch him in the face. The voice returns the threat.
The Man in Black, Hoodie and a Backpack
I put in another hour and a half after close at work. It's twilight when I come out. I'm half a block from there, at the exit of the following parking lot, waiting to enter a turn lane on the boulevard. A guy dressed in black, hoodie and backpack, is quickly asking me questions. Do I need any accessories [for my bike]? Do I want to trade for them? (?) I don't remember the last person I saw where I work, with trouble in the membrane. A good hour later, I'm approaching the bridge where I saw a motorcycle shut off it's headlight before it came across. I'm on a patch of trail which is hidden in the dark from any streetlights. As near as I can tell, someone homeless has some kind of stroller turned upside down with the wheels off, working on it in the opposite lane of the trail. On Saturday, it's not long after I get to work. I'm going back inside after throwing out some trash. I hear a loquacious guy exiting the business next door, a barber shop. I turn to glance at him. It's the man in black, hoodie and a backpack. He tells the female employee inside, "...it's cold out here." He strolls down along the shops. A short while later, I stick my head inside the barber shop and tell her I saw him the other day. She says he asked to use her phone. Our shopping center has it's very own homeless guy.
During the last week of October, the last vestige of Racine's [a favorite eatery of my late mom and my sister in the 1990s] disappeared. ...the preferred spot for a big celebration, a quick power meeting, an intimate dinner, a lonely drink. The wrecking crew had already knocked down the half-block...had moved onto the former dry cleaners...then taken on the big parking garage that had recently served as unauthorized housing. ...a long series of goodbyes over the past twenty months. There's a lot of debris left to sweep up in this town, as we all come out of hibernation.... ...The Market... For decades, the Market was...where everyone knew your name. ...the Market immediately became the place...to meet in lower downtown...between just-awakening downtown and the embryonic Auraria campus. ...a spot...created just for you, and your friends...gathering there just before work, writing their novels, debating the latest movies, taking a break between classes, talking shop. "The Market was at the core of the essence of Larimer Square...of Decades of Downtown Denver. It's not just about the space... ...El Chapultepec... ...went on to become one of Denver's legendary jazz venues... ...drunken Rockies fans disrupting shows and Denver's explosive growth...reasons for closing the venue. - Westword, 11/4-10/2021
I have just visited the future. One cannot really talk of revolution without without visiting "Man and his World" (formerly Expo '67) in Montreal. ...to walk the mahogany boardwalks, ride...flashing escalators. All Day-glow, purples, pinks, and greens. Twisting copper cobwebs, stretches of steel pillars, flowing concrete wings, and plastic tunnels. Cubes, triangles, bubbles, spaghetti nets, circles of light, fountains of energy; these are the shapes of things to come. One cannot tell the church from the fun house. "Is this the roller coaster or the subway, sir?" - Hoffman
"You Need Your Own TV Show." "Shut Up."
Sunday. Visit the sister in a convalescence facility for lunch, and then see a movie. It's a long day, and I'm tired at the end of it. Even though I slept well the past couple of days. The sister was originally told she needed a knee replacement. Recently, the doctor told her, 'Whoops, you need both knees, and by the way both shoulders replaced.' But she has an infection in at the shoulders, which requires a month-long stay in this place. So, on another day when am out in bike shorts, I'm down my street. Being the fine day it is, the Caucasians are al occupying the tennis courts in the park. Courts which were empty for the fourteen years I've lived here, before the Caucasians began migrating out of downtown. Reverse Reconquista. Perverse Reconquista? I end up on a crosstown trail out of downtown, It's a popular biking and running trail. One grey-haired guy is fucking stopped and standing on it at one point. I'm riding past a bank of tall weeds across the river. I hear a voice going on and on. It ends with, '...and I told you once already, don't fuckin' talk to me anymore!' It's a voice straight from a TV show. I say, "Man, you should have your own TV show dude." There's a pause before the voice replies, "Shut up!" The following day, I'm out on the trail along the way to work. I'm just about to break out of the bank of trees when I happen upon a grey-haired and bearded rider on his bike, motionless on the trail. He's head to toe in black skin-tight Lycra, with silver zippers. He's mesmerized by a racoon directly across from him on the trail. As I pass him, he says, "Look at that distemper." I assume he's talking about the raccoon. This could be a guy who actually wants his own TV show. Wednesday I get up and go online. There's a news story about the many police vehicles I saw a handful of blocks down my street when I came home last night. They were directly in front of a middle school. A police officer was shot responding to an armed home invasion.
Wednesday. I'm om the trail to work, rolling past the homeless camp at the bent guardrail. A pickup stops and honks before continuing up the thoroughfare. When the truck is gone, I can see a small car has turned onto the bike trail headed to the west of here. Coming home, I'm right back here, now in the dark. A bicycle is parked at the camp, it's red taillamp blinking. A small truck with a cab, no rear bumper, and one of it's white taillights out makes a U-turn and pulls out onto the road. There is junk on the roof of the cab. The following morning, I'm on the connecting trail to work. I'm rolling past the homeless tents off in the weeds, where I heard homeless doin' the nasty. This morning, I hear a child crying. After work, I'm coming back past the homeless camp where pickup trucks stop and honk and homeless trucks frequent. The truck I saw leaving from here last night is parked at the camp, which appears to be it's residence. There's also a bicycle parked with it's taillamp still blinking red. I stop across from there, on the bike trail, to write this down. I hear a homeless guy across the busy street. He's saying to me, "Who is that? Who is that?" It's a curious interaction. As someone stopped across from the camp, being addressed by someone from a subculture who by nature attempts to remain aloof if not hidden, what are the norms? I'm attempting to discern his norms as I wonder if he remembers those of the society which he left. Or which left him. A different homeless guy crosses the street to the trail. As a cyclist whizzes past under the streetlight, the other guy is breaking twigs off the trees along the trail. I opt instead for the moonlight, and I'm on my way. Only later do I wonder if the campers have something stashed in the trees directly across from their camp.
Thursday. On the way to work, along the block of campers next to the pen field. There is now a couple of smaller campers, and a huge RV trailer here. Just around the corner, and I'm out on the bike trail. Down and just over the bridge after the playground by the river, immediately there's a young guy just getting going. He's on the trail, on a bike, and with his right hand is pulling a rolling suitcase. He's going at a pace which isn't bad, considering he's pulling a suitcase. But I'm trailing behind him. Until he stops and I sneak around him. During the last four days of the week, I leave work at just about twilight these days. And that's if I leave on time. A good hour later, and I'm rolling past the homeless camp with its own car. This evening, as I'm passing it, another pickup truck out on the road behind me honks as it passes the camp. It could be honking at a couple of homeless cyclists in the opposite lane. One is pushing his bike in the street, and the other appears as if he's riding close to the center line. neither have any lights. On Sunday, I decide to finally exchange back racks on my two older bicycles. The oldest one has a shock absorber mid-frame, which actually connects both halves of the frame. This bike has a standard back rack, with each end connected to a different half of the frame. The rack is not designed to move with the frame, and I'm tired of losing screws connecting the rack to the frame. The rack comes off easily enough. I have one satchel into which it awkwardly but securely fits. I expect to take it to the bike shop in the sporting goods supercenter, before lunch with the sister. When I get to the shop, I'm shortly and sweetly informed that they "don't really" deal with "used" parts. And, anyway, they are so backed up today with work that it won't be done today, much less anytime soon. This in spite of the fact I'm there when they open. After lunch with the sister, I track down a hardware store, to pick up a couple of screws. Right across the street, I discover a bike shop. Which is open. And they have no trouble installing this bike rack on my bike.
...reverse-engineering what makes the urban experience exciting. ...forty bucks for a bowl of faux-ethnic cuisine over the ruins of a mom-and-pop haunt? Denver really oughta decide if it's gonna be a facade or a home. Her people give her so much. When are they gonna get a little something in return? - Westword, 11/11-17/2021
I tried to close down this bad news commune...run by Spade Charlie, a real amphetamine, V.D., clap headquarters. I stormed in the door screaming "Clean the place up." I gave some girl huddled in the corner two dollars and told her to go home. Spade Charlie, 250 pounds of blubber, dropped his amphetamine snort and picked up a bread knife in a rage. "Who said that?" - Hoffman
Wednesday. I have an appointment with my dentist, the resident dentist at the clinic a few blocks from my home, where I've been going since the unexpected fortunes of my healthcare since the pandemic. She's Vietnamese, as are so many of the medical personnel in this surrounding Vietnamese neighborhood. She's young, in her twenties? And I can't get over how good she is. I had seen a root canal specialist perhaps last month, about an infected root canal. He told me not to worry about it. She, on the other hand, doesn't recommend I go through life with an infected tooth. And she wants me to get one wisdom removed. She shows me the bone loss on the x-ray. In a few sentences, she snaps everything into focus for me, and I leave there having already decided I will get these teeth removed. My wisdoms I've been back and forth on with a previous dentist and specialist. I think it's funny how my decision about this being the right time has nothing to do with visits to previous dentists. And previous costs paid. And previous insurance during previous times. In the waiting room, children's programming is always on the TV in the morning. Today, a show with a theme of managing your emotions. Whatever I'm supposed to feel about these healthcare decisions, I don't believe is up to me. This morning's visit is actually for a filling, which I have far less these days than crowns and root canals. And consultations with specialists and cleanings. She and her assistant are laughing at me. The dentist asks if my tongue feels numb from the medicine. I reply that it did but doesn't now, because it was probably the topical gel preceding the needle, which lasts far less as long. They think it's funny I know the difference due to my extensive history of dental work. I laugh at them, that all they have to do is look in my mouth, and they can see the extent of my experience as a patient.
I get out with plenty of time to get to work. I stay at work more than an hour after close, cleaning up work. It's twilight when we close and dark now. I'm rolling through the old money neighborhood, just blocks from work. Having turned onto a sleepy street, I shut off my headlamp with no traffic around. No one but a single pedestrian with a tiny flashlight, an old guy walking his dog. He shines his light on be and says out loud, "No, light." I reply, "That's right." He should see how many homeless cyclists I pass with no helmets, much less lights. Minutes later, I'm out on the trail. Construction is going on at one bend, and I'm suddenly staring floodlights in the face. Here's all the light anyone would need.
...a cultural nationalist...would embrace a concept of hip capitalism... Political revolution leads people into support for other revolutions rather than having them get involved in making their own. Cultural revolution requires people to change the way they live...in the revolution... The cultural view creates outlaws, politics breeds organizers. Morality rests in God's imagination and if we see ourselves as gods [sic] I guess we alone make those choices. Moral decisions never rest in our tools... - Hoffman
Society as a whole has moved away from [face-to-face] interactions...into...online orders and pick-up windows. The haves and have-nots do not socialize in the same places anymore. Iconic greasy spoons...are gone, soon to be redeveloped into something...glass-clad... Stumble in [to one such remaining place] and you'll hear [one infamous] jovial jack-of-al-trades who's worked there since February of 1972 - whose "Plates are hot! Have a nice time," catchphrase is an institution all its own. [The bartender] has been there since 2003...just as her mom...was before her. ...all these Zoomer-led transformations along this famously stubborn stretch of Colfax? - Westword, 11/18-24/2021
Saturday. I'm out of the door before sunrise. I elect not to turn on my headlamp or taillamp. The sun will be up soon enough. The overnight dipped below the 30s F, and my knit gloves are not warm enough. I will take my ski mittens tomorrow. The dawn is on the horizon as I come downhill, toward the street both next to an open field and with a smattering of homeless campers. behind me, I hear a racing vehicle. A Cadillac SUV comes shooting past me with few feet to spare. He homes to a halt behind another vehicle ahead, making a left. The other vehicle hesitates before the SUV moves around and past it...on the left. Then it's around the corner, past the campers, and around the next corner, accelerating uphill back from the direction it came. The street with the campers has a newly arrived trailer, behind a falling apart pickup spray-painted black. After work, there shall be no workout for me. I'm headed to my appointment for a flu shot, at the pharmacy where I grocery shop. I ask where to get my Covid booster. They offer it there. The only side effect from my flu shot is that, by bedtime, I'm dead tired. Just as I pull the covers up, the neighbor next to my townhome cranks up his vehicle's sound system. I get up and go outside to see what the occasion is. He and a resident, or friend, or whoever lives in the tiny bungalow with its front yard full of trucks and vans are inside the passenger door of one vehicle. One guy tell the other he's been "trying to get more power." From the sound system? The music knocks off a half hour later and I get some sleep. The postponement of my workout makes the following day a long one. I'm again out of the door before the sun rises, and I ride down to my rec center. I'm not usually here on Sundays anymore. I listen to one guy preparing to play handball, as he speaks to another player. He and his wife originally were in the market for a finished condominium, but "the experience wasn't fun." So they are having one built. $500,000. Was it just a month or two ago that I saw a homeless couple in here, with their dogs?
I ride north from the gym, along a route I've never taken, but takes me past well-worn paths where I've been before. It's a quiet and a lazy morning. I get to the bike shop where I was a week ago. They straighten my crooked back rack. From there, it's another lunch with the sister at the convalescence center. Someone sent her an acrylic painting kit. She gives it to me. I fit it into a bag I have with other cycling gear, for when the temperature warms up later today. Then I am off to the camera place across town, to order my Christmas photo cards. With pictures of myself, and my lady. A wonderful employee assists me with the software, and I'm done in no time. They will be ready tomorrow. I'll get 'em next Sunday, after Thanksgiving, during which I hope to see my lady. On the way back, I stop at the mall which I used to live up the street from. I need a new bag with which to haul my stuff back and forth to work during winter. I'm hungry and the place with no line is where I stop and get a $12.00 salad. I sit next to a couple of well-dressed ladies conversing in Spanish. This mall at one time was Denver's number one tourist attraction, and there appear to be races here from all over the world. Then there are the weirdo Caucasians who dress up in some kind of fashion costume, to come to this mall. One guy is in some kind of nineteenth century miner's hat with a brim, and jeans with leather patches on the knees. Somehow, I end up walking the length of the ground floor and back again along the second one, visiting a handful of stores. The last one was recommended by the others, and has a bag for $450. All the while I am hauling this acrylic painting kit. I end up purchasing the first one I looked at, for $24. The clerk offers me a 20% discount if I sign up for a store credit card. Okay. I'm asked various personal info, including my annual net income. I put down the figures from 1991. The computer instructs the clerk to call a phone number. Her store phone has no cord connecting it to anything. We go to a phone at a customer service desk. She reaches someone who asks me if I have a mobile phone. I always deny this. This is all the voice on the phone wants to know. My card is not authorized at this time. We return to the first desk, where we left the bag. A woman shows up and attempts to ask the clerk a question before she finishes my sale. The clerk gives me a 10% discount for my trouble. Hey, I got more time than money. She lets me know that I will either get my card or a letter explaining why the card won't be coming, both in my mailbox. I don't need a department store credit card. I won't be shopping for any $450 bags. Although my trek through the mall reminded me that I need to get my lady something for Christmas.
I get home some ten and a half hours after I left, again in the dark. I decide to grab dinner from the Chinese place across the street. Here on this single property are a handful of vortexes, of decidedly non-metaphysical activity. In the parking lot is a fire truck from the firehouse directly across the street, lights flashing. Cross-legged on the cement, next to an entrance, is a guy with his eyes closed as he vapes. He's flying a sign which reads "blessed." There's a relatively long line this evening. I'm behind a couple of twentysomething women with a child. One lady is smoking. The other is using profanity and showing Tik Tock videos to the other on her phone. The kid is telling stories about himself jumping into the washing machine. Next to the other entrance is the drunk of the week. This evening, he's holding the door open for customers. When I make it to the front of the line, he holds the door open and tells me to go inside. There are already six people inside, and the door has a sign which reads "4 customers maximum." He continues to hold the door open, and then tells a woman and her kids behind me to go inside. I ask him if he works there. He claims he sweeps up and takes out trash. I point out the sign. After three people leave, I go in and get my food. I mention this guy and his claim to being an employee here. His claim is refuted by one of the staff. When I come out again, he's gone. The following morning, I'm out on the trail to work. Out at the old homeless camp at the damaged end of the guardrail, the homeless car is preparing to make a run somewhere. A guy on an electric bike waits to cross the road and enter the bike trail. He may not be homeless but just passing through from a connecting trail. He comes over to the trail and whizzes past me with his electric motor. Coming along the trail toward me is a little homeless guy. He's holding the handlebars of a bicycle with his right hand. The bike rolls along a narrow gravel strip next to the trees. With his left hand, he pulls a small cart. In the cart are what appear as if they could be brand new items from a TJ Maxx. The base of a lamp, plates, bowls... Perhaps a half hour later and I'm off the bike trail and up a steep hill. Around a corner and down a street to a horse trail. Toward the end, I come upon a group of perhaps seven grey-haired women. They have three or four tiny dogs on a leash. The horse trail runs behind some expensive ranch homes. The ladies appear to be looking at a pair of vans in a driveway. Both vans have "Home Security Center" on the side. Mondays we are open an hour later than the other five days, and I'm at work until a half hour after we close. I need to use up the rest of the transit system ride coupons I have, before they expire at the end of next month. I have just enough time to catch a bus. A couple of stops past mine, a homeless guy gets on. He's immediately recognizable with his backpacking pack and the sleeping bag bungeed to it. he also has a shopping bag. He gets on saying, "Shit, shit," as he's digging out his fare. He sits down and asks me if I have any phones for sale. He claims he goes through a phone every week, whatever this means. He has a shirt which is too large and asks me if I want it. When I decline, he apologizes "for being nice." I heard this before from those with trouble in the membrane.
Tuesday at work. A decidedly non-homeless spectacle scoots past the front windows. Dad is on an electric scooter with one of his young sons. Another son follows upon his own scooter. The daughter appears to be the eldest. She's on rollerblades. The high today is about 67 degrees F. Thanksgiving is Thursday. On Wednesday, I get everything done in the morning, or rather have not as much to do, and am able to get out of the door and off to work early. Last Sunday, I was gone for ten and a half hours, and I got plenty done. But one thing I didn't do was swing by a Whole Foods and grab more of my favorite soap. And, as with all my favorite grocery items, I have to go to different supermarkets to find all of them. I decide to make the journey to the nearest Whole Foods this morning, before work. It's not a long ride. I'm approaching from the back of the store when I see a security guard. He stands on the grass next to the sidewalk. He appears to be guarding a tent behind a taped off corner of the parking lot. In the tent are two clerks and a cash register, and a long line of customers. Just inside the entrance is a police officer. Lately, I haven't been at this Whole Foods, where I don't recall ever seeing security. I've been at the one downtown, where I assumed the officer there was to police the homeless inside the store. I ask the checker what's up with security 'round these parts. She replies that it's nothing out of the ordinary. I ask what the line is outside the tent. It's for holiday orders. I decide to use my last unstamped transit system ride coupon for the year and jump on a train to a bus to work. I get there early and head over to the pharmacy in the shopping center for some dental floss. This is the same pharmacy which has kept me stocked up with sunscreen this past summer. AS an afterthought I ask them if they have my brand of Covid booster shot. When I got my flu shot last Saturday, where I grocery shop, I asked the pharmacist if they had my Covid booster. She said they did and I should go back online to make an appointment for that one. When I did, I found no appointments were available. This morning, I am told this pharmacy does indeed have my brand of Covid booster. I have an appointment fifteen minutes after work. After work, I head over there. It's a half hour after work when I'm called back. They want me to wait another ten minutes to observe potential side effects, but if I go now, I may just catch a bus home. I do go, and I just miss it as I watch it go past. Instead, I take a quiet ride home in some light and wet snow which is falling. I don't know if this is a side effect, but I'm hungry. I also haven' eaten dinner yet. I know the Chinese place is closed until perhaps Sunday for the holiday. I don't want to detour for any deathburger places on the way home. It's uncertain if any are open. I'm coming along a final stretch of trail. The snow has let up. In the distance across a golf course, I see a line of uneven lights. I believe they run along a Christmas tree lot across the highway. Right next to a homeless trailer which has been there for a year. I exit the trail and head up a street straight to my boulevard. I check out a chicken place. Closed. I roll past a pho place. They have a ten dollar minimum on credit card purchases. Is this why they say capitalism is on it's last legs. I run in and out to grab the latest issue of a weekly metro newspaper. Then I happen upon a new Cajun place. They hook me up with dinner. Which I finally get to eat after listening to my neighbor complain about not being informed about our new HOA plan.
My townhome neighbor on one side is the HOA president. He is Vietnamese and his name is Tam, but everyone pronounces it as "Tom." The guy directly across from me is the secretary, John. A neighbor between myself and John, in the complex, is Cheryl. I've seen her off and on coming and going since I moved in here and we would chat outside once in a while. Her ex-boyfriend was living with her when I showed up 14 years ago, and he was the property "manager." Rumor had it that he was pocketing the HOA fees. This is why it's interesting that Cheryl rings my bell soon after I get home. I ask her in from the cold. She's been sending her HOA fee checks to the previous property management company, and has had the previous two returned. She wanted to ask me if the HOA has a new management company. I tell her that Tam rang my bell, perhaps last month, and gave me the new address for the checks which I then write down for her. We're low tech around here. Or maybe we're just old. I explain to Cheryl what Tam and John both told me. I ran into John not long ago as well. It was decided we would use a kind of self-management program which includes a phone app. She claims that this is the first she is hearing of this, and wants to know if there is also a phone number as well as an address. It sounds as if she doesn't understand that we don't have a new separate company managing us, but a means by which we are managing ourselves. Cheryl expresses her concern that she is unable to determine what is going on with her HOA fees and how the money is being used. She tells me that she didn't even know Tam's name in all the time they lived here before me, and that John "doesn't care for" her. Something to do with a dog which her visiting daughter brought with her. I remember that dog. It would bark when I was trying to go to sleep. I remember Cheryl's daughter, who would silently sit out on the porch and smoke, and throw her cigarette butts into my garden plot, and disappear whenever I came outside. The first time I ever heard her voice was when she spoke to Cheryl's granddaughter. And I remember the cast of characters who would emerge from her garage, none of whom ever were the same people. It becomes clear to me that she does not know what's going on because neither Tam nor John are communicating with her, perhaps because they came to the conclusion that she is trouble. She mentions another resident she spoke to, someone else who's name she doesn't know, who also was living here before I arrived. Mandy. I tell her that Mandy used to be on the HOA board when a previous townhome resident, another female, was president. I tell Mandy that I later found out the other residents signed a petition to have her removed as president. Cheryl tells me she never knew this either. She takes the address I give her and tells me she may attempt to hire an attorney, to find out where the HOA fee money is going. Caveat Emptor. Surely Rome wasn't managed in a day. She leaves me her phone number and asks me if I can find out if our "new place" has a phone number from Tam, and let her know. I say "sure." Nice guy that I am. Am I now mediating between residents and management?
Thanksgiving lunch is a lovely dollop of stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, gravy, and a few pieces of turkey. And a slice of pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I don't recall the last time I had that. I have it with the sister at the convalescence place. She may be out at the end of next month. I ride home unable to find any hardware stores open, for my continued quest to find a way to adapt my last remaining back rack to the only bike I have without one. I give up and ride home, stopping into a deathburger along the way. A skinny young guy emerges in front of the register to tell me that they "close in 5 minutes." I'm just in time for a snack. which takes me through the parking lot of an old building which has been a church, school, and the last thing was a construction office. It's an age-old lot with cracks in the asphalt. Suddenly I hear a recorded Caucasian voice which I've never heard before. It's coming through a powerful speaker somewhere. "You are trespassing. You are being recorded. Leave the area or give us your code number." I don't have a code number. I get home just a half hour before the next-door Vietnamese grocery closes early. I pick up some salmon for dinner as everything on my block is shut down. The following evening, I'm coming home from work, past the homeless camp at the guardrail with the damaged end. The homeless vehicle is there with it's hatchback open. A second car slowly makes its way around the other end of the guardrail and onto the gravel. It appears just the same as the original vehicle. Coming out of the gym after work, I decide that I can make it home it the same time it will take me to wait for and then take the train. I'm passing the same camp some 24 hours later. Both vehicles are gone, but there is one guy there sitting on a scooter. Just before I reach the camp, I pass four motorcycles riding up and down this road. Two of them pulling wheelies. Like they do. I reach another bridge and go across. There's a sizable park and a playground next to the river bank. Next to the trail is a laundry basket on wheels, as I've seen for the past 30 years at places I've worked. It's overturned on the grass. Spilling from the basket is luggage. The luggage is open, from which are spilling clothes. Not far from here and I'm at my exit from the trail. It's after I pass under a bridge. Pushing a stolen shopping cart across the bridge is a guy in an orange knit hat and a black leather motorcycle jacket. He wants to know if I have a product called Fix A Flat. I've never heard of it. I'm over the railroad tracks, down the street with the campers next to an open field, and up a steep hill. At the end of the street is a guy walking in the street in the dark. He wants to know if I "want to smoke some weed?" Around the corner and up the street, and I pass a regular female who regularly pushes her own stolen shopping cart down this street as I'm on the way home.
Before I leave the trail along the way home in the evening after work. This week I noticed the odd uneven long string of lights in the distance. All the way across the golf course here. Over at that end of the course is the highway, and across the highway is a lot between the road and the light rail line. Every year around this time, the lot is full of Christmas trees for sale. This is the first time I've seen these lights in the distance, and I presume they must run along the fence around the lot. I first spotted this lot a year ago from the train, which runs past it. And I first spotted the homeless trailers, one of which has remained next to the lot for a year now. After seeing it from the train last year, I verified where it was from across the highway, and I would find an entrance off an avenue where there is access to the lot.
On Sunday, I'm on my way for another lunch with the sister, then to pick up my holiday photo cards, and then across the street to Home Depot. My oldest bicycle needs the back rack, removed from another bike, to be installed. This one clamps around the seat post, and should work much better with this frame. But the seat post has a smaller diameter that standard posts. I need a small strip of rubber to make up the difference. Or something as close as possible. Along the way across downtown, I first go north before I go east. I'm entering the trail across the street from the former church/current construction company parking lot. Cyclists are both on the trail as well as the street. The same message is playing randomly as, I assume, some kind of motion detector or sensor picks up movement. After lunch, I hit my old mall for some yogurt, and then pick up the photo cards. Across the street at the Depot, I find one lonely roll of rubber in a strip, with adhesive. And I can tear it with my fingers. Which is great...as I forgot to bring a scissors. Outside, I put a couple of strips on my seat post, and just those two allow the rack to clamp. It's not on tight, but appears to stay in one place, and I believe it will do the trick. Mission accomplished.
On Monday, I'm coming home from work. I'm way down from the homeless camp next to the guardrail. I can see emergency lights just about where the camp is. As I get close, I see a small car which appears to have gone off the other side of the road. It's at one end of the camp. Police have a short few yards of the road blocked off. I pass one police cruiser, myself on th trail and it on the street. An occupant briefly shines the spotlight on me. On Tuesday, I notice on the way to work that the big laundry basket on wheels, 10 bushel or so sized, is gone from the grassy corner on one end of the bridge. A blanket and a couple of garments are all which remain. On the way home, I spot the basket. It's way down the trail.
See that girl, barefoot (dooeyoumoo) Whistlin and a singin She's a carryin on Laughin in her eyes, dancin n her feet, She a (neonwhirrmoo) And she can live on the street - GRATEFUL DEAD - Hoffman
