Friday is the 1st. The month is coming in like the summer. Another day which will surely feel as if it's 100 degrees F. This week I was depressed. I get that way whenever I think I'm not going to have an opportunity to work at least one day open to close. When I saw my coworker on Wednesday, she asked me to work her shift on Thursday. The depression evaporated like a fog. Even an open to close shift goes flying past. I get a decent night's sleep and wake up Friday rushing out the door. It's a day of this week when the rec center outdoor pool is open. I put eggs in a pan, but forget to turn the burner on before I get into the shower. I write a check for the phone/internet bill, but forget to mail it on the way past my mailbox. I have it with me. I race down the sidewalk along my boulevard. I hit all the lights and make it around the drive through breakfast rush hour traffic from the deathburger. I make the bus stop and the bus comes in jig time. For breakfast, I get out at a gas station before the rec center and go inside for some chips. The clerk, a wired, grey-haired broomstick of a lady with her bleached perm pulled back, tells me to keep an eye on my bike. She says that bikes get stolen round these parts. I have another great swim. The bus back collects me and drops me at the stop for the connecting bus to work's doorstep. I take my bill across the street to a contract post office and put it in the mailbox. When I leave, a clerk tells me, next time to just bring my bike inside. He says that bikes get stolen round these parts.
...it seemed to me [that someone] continuing on after death would not [simply as a result of being deceased necessarily come to have infinite knowledge.] I understand...having gone through analysis...the unconscious mind is blocked from...perception... ...of...the "collective unconscious." ...also...psychedelic drugs [operate] by numbing [the brain's] filter... ...the same result can occur [from religious] experiences...after...fasting... [Others] learn to...control states of electrical activity of the brain [causing] states resembling those induced by meditation. Perhaps [psychic] phenomena...and [a] seance had...reduced...my collective screen and I had "picked up"...ESP... ...references...pulled...or at least accessible from my unconscious mind - by ESP of course...gave a distinct feeling of a "presence." ...could have come from the medium as precognition. ...importance in the...accumulation of evidence and consistency and continuity of the comments from [the author's deceased son through multiple mediums. His deceased son] appeared to be "tracking" me [and according to the medium] was feeling better, more at home and happier...seemed to have made real progress...able for the first time to give more thought to other persons than to his own situation. "We must talk about real things - like drugs. My generation wants to try everything. ...urge others to go out and find their [deceased] loved ones. ...be extremely selective [when verifying the spirits communicating are actually their loved ones.] I'm working really hard at learning [what being dead] is really about..." [The] religion editor of the "Toronto Star" [concocted a program for Canadian Television] to invite a leading...medium to appear [with the author, and that] if such a medium could go into a trance during the taping and "bring through" some entities, data would be directly provided... [The medium chosen was a] well-known American medium... "...I...am able to somehow function...without...my body... [The medium goes] into what is known as a yogi trance in which [a spirit named Fletcher] claims to be interpreting [for the dead.]" ''..a kind of telephone operator?" "...right. ...known as a 'control' in psyche circles." - Pike
Originated by the Psychedelic Club of Denver, a nonprofit educational group...the first-ever Psychedelic Cup will measure homegrown magic mushrooms in categories such as highest psilocybin content and...overall potency. Magic mushroom growing contests have been held underground...for years. There will also be a beauty contest for...most vibrantly grown boomers... - Westword, 9/21-27/2023
It was the summer of 1998... Electronically Stimulated Incarnation Recall involves...repeated electrochemical jolts...directly into the R-Complex...genetic memory. ...defense mechanisms are deliberately torn. Those who [try it] are mostly historians, scientists, freaks, mystics, poets... What was it like to have knowledge of those hundreds of other lives? I would never know. ...how much [of her] was what she was here, now, and how much was...reaction to all...she knew she had been. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I lay...listening to...some large silence where my own ESIR memories might have been. "Think of when ESIR was first introduced. A few years of wild quakes all over society, and then everyone adjusted." A group...published...an appeal...to come forward and declare the fairness of the church at Joan of Arc's heresy trial. For years, people had been claiming to be Jesus Christ or Muhammad or Judas... But now a famous name had ...been verified...it...carried the risk of losing...professional reputations... - "With the Original Cast", by N. Kress, OMNI Magazine, 5/1982
...she attended a mediumship development class in 2016... A friend was going to the class, so [she] tagged along, not knowing what the class was for. "...she was nervous to go by herself. ...I didn't even know that I was a medium at this point..." ...a year-long mentorship with another psychic. As a former college professor, [her] switch to work as a psychic was recent. ...she transitioned out of higher education... "...that my psychic business is more stable than higher education...is a pretty crazy idea for our society." - Littleton Independent, week of 9/14/2023
Once again it's time to announce the winners of the annual Uri awards, named after the psychic superstar... In the performance Category... There is Mr. Stanley Wojcic, who assured his clients that there is sex after death... In the Media Category... the "National Star"...flew Uri Geller coast to coast...and had him broadcast telepathic messages... One woman called the paper...not only was her cutlery bent but she underwent some amazing healing experiences. The only problem was [she] lived...nowhere near the plane's flight path, and her phone call came 30 minutes before Geller's plane took to the air. As usual, each of the winners has been notified telepathically... As usual, none have replied. - Last Word by J. Randi, OMNI Magazine, 9/1982
...a dean saying, "Who the hell do you think you are, trying to represent science on television?" "When I started [on TV], my hair was down to my shoulders... The scientific community was absolutely outraged...because I didn't represent the mainstream." - OMNI Magazine, 6/1982
...Restif de la Bretonne['s] contribution to utopian literature [is one in which he] perceived the stubborn pursuit [of] all our societies. Only...a society...designed to correspond to the basic instructions of human nature can...become utopian... Nature and civilization are at odds. Yet both must find accommodation in a morally effective community. - Aldiss
"Cross-pollination of communities has always been a huge part of what I do. I knew we needed to stand for something entirely experimental..." - Washington Park Profile, 9/1/2023
...the local ice cream community. ...hybrid cafe/ice cream shop... ...crowd-friendly flavors... ...vivid blue-dyed ice cream... ...we scraped the bottom of our cups... ...dependable staff wages and wind-energy supported... ...2,000...vegan flavors... National publications like Food & Wine have even caught on... ...a steady stream of college kids and families... - Westword, 8/31-9/6/2023
...the camaraderie with your foursome once the clubs are packed... Before you can say, "I've been there," stop. You haven't. [Says] a self-described "whisky girl,"... "I love making our bourbon bacon jam for our upcoming Bourbon Bacon Jam burger." ...the times I want to get away, but not fuel up the jet... - Mile High Sports, 6/2023
Saturday. I'm curbing my eating breakfast out on Saturdays. I leave the house later, with enough time to get to work. Out on the trail between 7 and 8:30 AM, the Lycra-clad cyclists are thick as flies. I'm coming across a bridge with a pair of them closing behind me. They're in tight formation. They weave around both myself and the pedestrian ahead of me. They don't see the oncoming cyclist. And they don't slow down. Don't expect these racing enthusiasts to give up their enthusiasm. There's about to be trouble just yards from the last trouble, involving the wrong way a roundabout. They sneak through the narrow gap between the oncoming cyclist and the pedestrian, with the cyclist exclaiming, "On a [blind] curve? C'mon guys." The afternoon at work is witness to the customary death cloud taking its spot in front of any angle the sun may choose to reach the ground. I head back home along the trail. As I am coming around the bend for the waterpark, the cloud steps out of the sun's way. I sneak in for a swim. Then it's time for yet another trip downtown to the sporting goods supercenter. My brake cables are stretching their way toward the moment when I squeeze the brakes down to the handlebars to make them work. I ride to the train which whips me to a downtown trail, and again I here at the north corner of downtown. A tech has a look and tells me that I need a new chain. (Again?) My shifter cables are corroded (which is why the high gears are sticky.) And, my "pulley wheels are shark teeth." The pulley wheels, of which there are two in the gear assembly, thread the chain through the gears next to the rear rim. The ends of the teeth should be flat, not pointed. ...like shark teeth. Bad for swimmers and for pulley wheels. Should be ready Wednesday. And I won't need that bike Sunday or Monday. Not bad.
Saturday I didn't get near enough sleep and get home dead tired. Sunday I wake up feeling much better. Before sunrise, I step out onto my back patio to see moonlight in my carport. I have nothing which needs getting done which I haven't already gotten done. The vegetables I bought this week I finally chopped. Laundry and dishes done. I would like to work out before returning to the waterpark. My usual rec center is shut down for annual cleaning. The other rec center in the network is even closer to home, but it's closed for Labor Day. The sister's favorite new gym is open until 3 PM. I head that way for a workout, and after I have a dip in the outdoor hot tub. From here, it's a straight shot to work. Which is closed on Sunday. But directly along the way is a supermarket, where I can pick up more soda and take it to work today, instead of having to do it Tuesday. And, as it's almost lunch time, I can sneak across the street from work to my old bakery...which is now open on Sundays. I'm told the shopping center there is getting busier. My previous ride on the south sidewalk along this street was miserable. I try the north side, and it's swe-e-et. By the time I reach the supermarket, I spot something in my rearview mirror. It's the beginnings of a thunderstorm. I suspect it's going to grow so fast that I won't get a swim in before it causes an inclement weather waterpark closure. By the time I do the short backtrack to the waterpark, it's still partly sunny. But I hear thunder in the distance. I get in the water and run into a coworker from a previous place of employment. The same thing happened last summer. I swim for a few minutes before the whistles are blown. They are shutting down for 30 minutes. Someone must have seen lightening. I bid my coworker farewell and am in the men's locker room changing when I hear a loud clap of thunder. As rain begins to trickle down, people begin to crowd the entrance just inside the men's room. One is a mom. (?) I ride home on the trail in the rain. If I don't make it back to the waterpark for closing day, this was quite a dramatic ending to the season. It ain't a heavy rain and doesn't last long. Then I'm home again.
On Labor Day, the sister takes me up to Boulder for lunch. Boulder has its own pedestrian mall. We have reservations at a favorite Italian place. The sister comments on the absolute perfect weather today. I'd have to say she's spot on. Much of the summer has been like this. She also mentions the last time she was on the mall here, she doesn't remember so many homeless. Anymore, the homeless are in every city. I imagine that they seek out anywhere there may be services for them. Boulder is a college town and a longtime hippie mecca. The homeless here wear tie dyed and Far Eastern gear. Their bad trips are less a problem of nature's chemicals than of society's nurturing failures. A homeless camp sits directly across the mall from us. Resident individuals take turns yelling during brief periods. Along the way here we passed the homeless cyclist, on and off the sidewalk and between and around pedestrians. There's the skinny, middle-aged homeless guy slowly pushing a loaded shopping cart with one hand and an electric scooter with the other. We finish lunch and make our way along the shops. A young woman with an accent I can't place spreads some cream under my left eye, in a demonstration for the sister. "It will make wrinkles disappear," she says in her accented English. With my left eye closed, I look at her long black hair hang loosely down her back. Denver's downtown rich young adults would eat her act up. "You will look 19 again. Can you handle 19?" I consider that I'm getting letters from Medicaid, congratulating me for qualifying to have my funeral paid for. My Medicaid against your wrinkle cream, shaman! She tells us, if I like the results, to return to her shop. This scene is the dynamic of the merchant. Spinners of tall yarns, peddlers of talismans, and practitioners of sorcery. On the street of another city, this would be a self-conscious metaphor for a digital age, much more than it is here. Where curios from Tibet may be purchased with debit card and wi-fi.
One of the shops we stop into sells clothes and jewelry from Nepal. So, naturally, I say hello to the owner in Hindi. Better yet, my pronunciation is incorrect. If you're going to get it wrong, really get it wrong. She recognizes my attempt at Hindi and corrects my pronunciation. We come out and I get my first ever tarot reading. I ask about the lady I'm dating. The narrative the fortune teller gives me is encouraging, beautiful actually. We got here early and we get out early. I get back home with plenty of time to head off to the waterpark on the closing day. The thunderstorm of yesterday has given way to scattered clouds which have burned off. Then it's dinner at a Chilis along the way home, and the chance to grab a grocery item at Target, an item unavailable at my regular supermarket. On the way home, I detour off the trail where it's under construction. I'm down a long road and up a steep hill, and around a corner. I'm at the crest of another hill between an industrial section and a residential neighborhood. A middle-aged guy is on a black bike. He has no helmet, and he's in a black tank top, black jeans, and black work boots. He wants to know if I want to buy his bike. Then, what's he going to ride home on? When I get home, I get a call from my coworker. She needs me to work for her, all day, the day after Labor Day. Of course. Wednesday. There's a chill to the early morning, which warms up by the time I reach the rec center pool. I'm leaving more than an hour earlier to swing by my dentist on the way to the bus for the pool. It's only the 6th of the month, but at 7 AM I'm putting on long pants and a windbreaker. My dentist cancelled our appointment, but I'm told I can come in and get the slides out of the way. I'm in and out, and at the bus stop without having had to dodge any traffic or students, I think the temperature's gonna be just fine for a swim and I take off the windbreaker.
A woman rolls through the intersection on a bike and pulls up to the bus stop. She glances at my bike. She's not wearing a helmet. The bus is meandering it's way our direction. In the distance, I can see the bike rack has one bike on it. There's space left for only one more bike. When she spots it, she asks me how far I'm going. I realize that she's attempting to negotiate with me over who gets the single remaining space. Yeah...that ain't how it works. It's first come first serve. I've written about my own tactics six years ago, of securing a spot on the bike rack, as a result of a crash course in getting my bike on the bus. Those were long trips home, which required crafty solutions. Back then, I took buses home with the front rack full, and myself the third bike inside the bus. Sometimes holding my bike perpendicular for 60 blocks. The way it is, it's first come first serve. I inform her that the owner of the bike on the rack may be disembarking here. If not, the driver may allow her to take her bike inside the bus. The dynamics of all this appears unfamiliar to her. She may have her own assumptions from a lack of experience. The bus pulls up and she asks the driver if the cyclist is stepping out here. She tells the driver she's on her way to work. Yeah...that ain't how it works either. He indeed lets her take her bike inside through the back door. She's obviously never done this, and goes to the other end, as if she's expecting another bike rack back there. She returns to the front door and he makes it more clear. She's inside now, and he asks her for fare. She claims she has it, and doesn't understand he wants her to pay it up at the front...like everyone else. She's placed her bike by the back door, in front of her. She says, "Well, fuck..." as she must step around it on her way up front.
...I made my decision to resign as bishop of California. ...submitted to the Standing Committee. Then...the consent of a majority of...bishops [based on the author's] letter of explanation...to the presiding Bishop. ...word was leaked to the press... ...farewell visits to...deaneries...letters, memos, radio and television... It was my intention to pursue [the Church's relationship to] values in transition in our society. ...wholesome socioethical attitudes and behavior... [The author was finishing his forthcoming book] You and the New Morality: 74 Cases... ...I was up against a deadline on a response...for Playboy magazine to an article..."The Death of God"... - Pike
[Jules Verne's] characters forever oppose the unruliness of the world with logic; the poles [of the Earth] are sacred places because they form still points in a turning world. [His novels] cover the globe, moving from one place to another in which struggles for liberty were being waged. Verne wrote in the great imperialist age. Like [H. G.] Wells, he is not on the side of the imperialists... ...he is quietly against conquest. His typical hero is an outcast from society... - Aldiss
Calling all cyclists! The Denver Century Ride is coming up. ...get pumped for it (and then pump up your tires). If you've been wanting to experience the city and the surrounding metro area by bike, this is your chance. Or, if you've been riding a lot on your own... ...a mostly urban ride, and...routes wind through scenic, even iconic landscapes... Cyclists come from all over...the world... Aid stations will be stocked with...cheerful volunteers... ...don't forget the post-ride party. ...an expo with...beer stations and a variety of dining options... - Washington Park Profile, 9/1/2023
Introduction to Mountain Biking Class Experience the thrill of mountain biking with an....instructor [from my sporting goods supercenter] where you'll learn...various riding techniques, navigate minor obstacles on trails, and more. [Will there be streets full of broken glass?] - Colorado Parent, 9/2023
Thursday. Yesterday evening I got an email letting me know my bike is ready for pick up. This morning I'm on a train platform, waiting to catch a ride downtown. On the platform for the train in the opposite direction is a guy waving his arms around and making jerking movements. With several jerks, he bends down to pick something off the train tracks. A crew is out power washing the station. One crew member says to another, "I found out I don't have to be politically correct at work" Friday. Another late start to my day. No breakfast. The pool is open this morning, but I decide to swim tomorrow instead. Or so I think. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I ride instead to the cafe next to the stop for my bus to work. I will be right back on this corner eight hours later, waiting for a connecting but home during rush hour. I will decide that I want to hit an eatery on the way home. The shadows begin to creep at 6 PM. The sidewalk cools off, and I will sit with my sandals off, next to a trash can with my bike tucked against a railing along the sidewalk. At this bus stop, I'll as out of the way as I can be. In the morning, I roll up to this very spot outside the cafe. I'm behind a group who appear to be students, waiting to cross the boulevard. When I'm here later on, another group of apparent students will come marching single file down the sidewalk, headed for the same corner. They will snake around me down on the concrete, more than one with a tote bag on their back with the name of the private university directly across the avenue. This morning, on that corner is the cafe, and I am inside looking through the windows facing the stop for my bus to work. I see someone obviously looking up the boulevard, waiting for the bus which should have already arrived. It shows up late. I realize just then that, had I taken this bus, perhaps I would have had a space on the rack where there's no guarantee I will have a space on the next. I'm distracted from this thought by someone on one of the three flat screens, each its own corner. He's stocky, wearing a blue tank top and sunglasses. Is his name Pat, the Pat something show? He's seated at a desk with a handful of others who are silent. Behind the panel is a green field, and there's a shot of a field of cheering fans. I can't hear them. He's silent as well, as the TV is on mute and the closed captioning is off. He's gesturing agitatedly non-stop. He raises a fist to salute someone off camera. The shot cuts to a couple of guys at a mixing board. A skinny guy in a Hawaiian shirt with long hair and a thick moustache raises a fist in response.
Saturday. Yes, after work I am at the rec center to swim. No, they are not open when I get here. Yes, I read the schedule for the outdoor pool this week. No, I didn't read it correctly. However...these facts are incidental. You see, I mentioned to my boss that I'm coming here those days when the outdoor pool can be staffed. And as long as the mornings are temperate. You see, he told me about a trail which splits off the trail along the Platte River. He wasn't specific about where it ends up. The internet provides a worthless map of this trail, presenting a ghostly trail which appears and then vanishes. When I do venture out onto it, it's a solid trail all the way out to a street before a major mill, with one final turn right into the rec center. The last leg is out in beautiful open space along points west. I won't be coming here after work, but I can get to work straight from here. I left work a little late, and I got here in less than two hours. This includes the major climb. Perhaps I can make back the opposite direction in less time. Next week, the outdoor pool will be open at 10 AM. It's tempting. I head out to the stop for the bus back to my boulevard. It collects me and I disembark at my local supermarket for a couple of things. I catch a bus back home with items and bike. These afternoon into evening buses from here back home can be crowded. This one is only going just a few blocks, but it fills up fast. I'm standing at the front when we pull to a stop. A woman with a wheelchair comes aboard. She's pushing her wheelchair, which is piled with her personal belongings in the seat. She takes a seat with the chair taking up half the aisle. She sits across from another woman, who has a pair of collapsible shopping carts. The driver leans in close. I don't hear him. But I'm sure he lets her know that she cannot bring a wheelchair aboard if, instead of sitting in it, she's going to use it as a wagon. He gestures to the other woman's carts, as an example of what to put personal belongings in.
A Couple Fans of Motorized Chairs
Sunday. The sister believes she has the latest strain of COVID. My lady is with her daughter who has a home under contract and having it inspected. The rec center pool is open today. But the temperature has dropped. And a death cloud has moved in to obscure the entire sky. Later on, it will rain. With the cooler temps, it's less swimming weather and better hot tub weather. The hot tub is at the sister's favorite new rec center. And I realize that, to get there, all I have to do is catch the same bus I take to the sister's place. The end of the line for this bus is a station for the train I would otherwise have to ride to. I ride just down the boulevard to the bus, which whips me out to the station. I backtrack just a couple of blocks to a deathburger for lunch. I order at the counter after another guy, who complains that his kiosk doesn't work. The kiosks no longer work for me at any location. He and I wait as others order after us and collect their orders after us. A manager comes out to ask what a customer, who ordered between myself and the other guy, is waiting for. He hands her his receipt. They make his order. I hand her mine, and she puts my order together. The last one to get his is the guy here first when I walked in. Then it's off to the gym. I workout, I hit the hot tub. Out of the rec center, I keep getting turned around here on this damned block. I finally remember that the street which appears as a dead end is actually a curve around which may be found the train station. I pull up to the gate for a bus back to my neighborhood. Inside the bus shelter is a motorized chair, and a guy laying on the concrete floor, his hands behind his head. His head is peppered with grey stubble and he's missing teeth. He asks if I am waiting for this bus and offers to have me step over him for a glance at the schedule, posted on the wall. I have a seat on the ground at the other end of the bus gate. Another guy wanders up and strikes up a conversation with the guy about his chair. "I'm saying, I know these chairs," he tells the guy on the ground. The bus pulls up and the other guy asks the driver for a pen, so he can write down the chair guy's number, so they can talk on the phone about his chair. The driver unfailingly searches for and produces a Ball Point. The other guy stays at the station. The chair guy has gotten into his chair and we both get aboard. He steers his chair into a space for such chairs. He then gets out of the chair and sits in a seat. He asks me if the air conditioning is up too high and offers to have the driver turn it down.
Monday. My coworker was at work when she called the police. A woman was sitting in front of one of the shops in our strip. My coworker tells me, when I get to work, that she was smoking something out of a pipe. The woman had decamped to the mall across the street by the time the police arrived. The woman left some stuff on a bench right outside our door, including a used tampon. The police told my coworker that they weren't interested in tossing the woman's leftovers. My coworker took care of it. Tuesday evening after work. I meet one of the two residents running our beleaguered HOA. I ask him what's new. He says we got a homeless van at the back of our lot. One resident responsible for the $5,000 sewage bill is being dealt with by an attorney, as is the resident who is responsible for our insurance company refusing to insure us. Until she empties her front porch. ...and the porches ain't that big. The sheriff is evicting three residents of yet another unit. It's the one where a woman was pounding on a window and yelling, "You owe me money, bitch!" The insurance company would also like us to repave our parking lot. The low bid for that is $60,000. One step back, he tells me, two steps forward. Wednesday. I'm on my way to work down the trail, along a section of steep riverbank lined with trees. On the grass next to the trail is a ten speed, laying on the ground. The rear rim is bent in a way which used to be referred to as a "banana". Two opposing ends of one diameter are bent one direction, and at 45 degrees, the other opposing ends are bent the other way. Toward the bottom of the bank is a tent. Laying on the ground is a long-haired guy in a black leather motorcycle jacket. The following morning, I will be back past this spot. The bike will be on the opposite side of the trail, with both rims gone. In its place will be an empty shopping cart. This morning, I pass one oncoming cyclist without a helmet who tells me, "Go U.S.S.A.!" After I break out of the trees and am headed toward the connecting trail to work, another oncoming cyclist with no helmet appears. A homeless guy with his skin and clothes cast in the same pall. Secured to a pack on his back is a closed umbrella.
Thursday. My presence is required at work a couple of hours early. I'm back on the trail to work. Parked in the small lot of the old VFW is a yellow school bus. It's spray painted with a mural of jumbled images. All the windows are covered from the inside. The mornings are weather for long sleeves and pants now. Onto the connecting trail to work, I'm coming down the stretch of trail across from the waterpark. A Parks and Rec guy is watering something at the edge of the bike trail. A few short yards away is a young guy. His bike is parked on the grass just behind him. He's in a black jumpsuit and WW II airman headgear. He has sunglasses on under an overcast sky. He's swinging a metal detector in one hand. One of the two guys has music playing, and the young guy almost appears as if he's dancing. After work, I detour off the trail to grab a weekly newspaper at a supermarket on the way home, and grab dinner at a pizza place where I read it. When I leave work, I put the long sleeves and pants back on. The sky is full on grey. When I'm in the pizza place, the sky gets dark. When I'm leaving, it's raining. I'm putting on my poncho as an elderly woman is coming down the line of shops. The pulls a rolling suitcase. As she passes behind me, she bumps me forward. She then turns to me and speaks in a heavy Germn accent. She asks me how much my bike coast, and suggests I sell it at a place she mentions. I ask her what I would then ride, as she wanders away. Now, Saturday is the start of a busy weekend. I have two separate library used book sales to attend. I will attempt to hit the one closest to work today. I'm on the way to work at 6 AM, when I put on the hood of my windbreaker. I swap out the sandals for shoes for the first time. My hands are okay in the cool air, but I put on the knit gloves anyway. It rained a couple of days ago. Up until then, the peaks of the Rockies were bare brown. The snow that high can last through May, even into June. This morning, as the sun comes up, I can see snow all above 10,000 feet. First snow on the peaks of the season. It's less than 3 weeks since I had my last swim at the waterpark.
At the old VFW parking lot, the school bus is gone. Way down on the connecting trail, I detour to a supermarket for more diet soda for work. The workday is almost done. I don't have a phone with internet. I go online to draw a map on paper, from work to the library. I've been there before. But I will be cutting it close as it is. I map out what I suspect is a shorter route. But someone brings in a 23-piece order right before we close. And it can't wait until Monday, not if I want it done correctly. I leave work almost a half hour late. I mistakenly put the map inside the bag secured to my back rack. I'm confident I can remember the route I mapped out. I go barreling through a residential neighborhood and come out on a corner where I think the library should be. After racing around and inquiring a couple of people, I realize that it's a city block from where I thought. I still get there with 20 or 25 minutes left until close. I finish looking at the books I want to, just as I'm getting shooed out. I'm satisfied I've seen everything I want to. It's rare that any library used book sale is a bust. Even at the smallest of sales I've picked up a couple of books. I just feel as though I've seen the books at this particular sale before. And it isn't as if I don't already have stacks of books in my basement, all from previous sales. Had I not raced here this afternoon, I could have seen an outdoor art show just across the street from work. I admit that I am devoted to the library used book sales. I ride to a train station, where the ticket validator isn't broken. It's missing altogether. I purchase a ticket from a kiosk with a touchscreen that acts as if it's drunk. Ticket finally in hand, I get on a train full of sports fans, headed downtown for something. I disembark at a trail downtown. I decide to go up to the sporting goods supercenter for a clearance sale. I need a new pair of winter mittens. It will be cold in no time. I get there and find a pair for only $65, well under $100. Not bad.
Sunday. I call the rec center. The outdoor pool is open. When I awake this morning, it's chilly. When I leave the house five hours later, I can't believe it's shorts weather. There's not a cloud in the sky. By 5:30 PM, on the way home, I will pass a time and temperature sign which reads 82 degrees F. This may be the last day like this for the rest of the year. I elect to ride to the rec center. As my lady's home is that way, I stop by her place to see her getting out of her car. She talks about quitting 7-Eleven and simply taking a second CNA job. She will let me know if she's free this weekend. I ride west and south on this beautiful day. I stop at a Subway for lunch before I hit the rec center. It's not nearly as far by bike as I remember. I plan on working out here this week. But it's been...close to ten years since I worked out here? That can't be right. All the equipment is new. And there's less of it. I'm able to do most of my workout. The swim is wonderful. The sky is blue. But I have a date with another library used book sale. The trail which I took to get here from work a Saturday or two ago, I do today in reverse. I come to one fork in the trail where my knowledge of the streets comes in handy, and I know which way to go. This may sound obvious. But if you don't know how the major arteries are laid out, you can end up riding along and suddenly asking yourself, 'How did I get here?' I hook up with one of my usual trails, and from there I ride to the nearest train station. I follow the street along the track to the next train station. The next station is so close, I can ride there before the next train comes along. The next station is the seat of the municipality of Englewood, a suburb of Denver. And it's the home of the Englewood Public Library. I've actually never been inside this library, even during all the years I passed through this station. Before October of 2015, there were a good seven years or so when I stopped riding my bike to work. I would take the transit system, and this station was a proxy. I would weigh whether to take the bus from this station or the one from the station two stops along, whichever came first. I remember many cold and dark late afternoons/early evenings switching from bus to train here. But that's consternation under the bridge, and too damned long of a story to tell here.
At the front entrance to the library is a sign directing patrons to the rear entrance. Under the sign is a sleeping homeless guy. Recently, the transit system has been taking steps to keep homeless out of its stations. There are always some here, but the population of homeless inhabitants here has plummeted. I lock up the bike and haul my butt to the rear entrance. On the first floor is the men's room. A key fob is required, and available from a key master. When I return with the key fob, she asks me if someone else is still in the men's room. Indeed there is. The sale is on the floor above. There is a big empty lobby with a pair of lonely displays. One has info for the homeless. The other has a single brochure with "Advice for corrections officers." I go into the sale and am in there perhaps for a couple of hours. Perhaps an hour after I show up, by then there are a handful more patrons. One guy keeps mansplaining to a woman next to him about the science books. 'Thos one is about such and such. And this one...' I spy one book which I know I've seen at a previous sale. I can't remember if I purchased it there. So I take it. It will turn out later that indeed I have it, as yet unread. The person in charge of the sale appears to be a mom, who is directing her son to literally run back and forth with an empty box. He's doing what, I don't know. When I check out, I mention yesterday's book sale and how it ended up being a bust. She tells me that another patron here told her that he was there, and concurs with me. I head back down to the 1st floor, and the men's room. The key master tells me that the restrooms close 15 minutes before the library. I pack up the books and grab the bike, and I take the train home. When I get home, I get the call. I'm working all day tomorrow.
Monday. I leave before sunup. Orion is over my right shoulder as I ride south. It's the first morning that I switch out my sandals for my shoes. I'm turning onto the block next to the open field. A small maroon car is parked there. It will still be there Friday morning. On Tuesday, I'm at work when I see out the window, the municipal police roust a guy on the bus bench. He doesn't strike me at all as homeless. An officer carries two of his big backpacks away somewhere. This week and the next, I'm back to at least spending a couple of days staying an hour after we close. Customers are dropping late after work. Come Sunday, the rec center outdoor pool is still open. Today begins the last week of the month. I do the bike ride there and ask about this week's schedule. I'm told that today is the last day the outdoor pool will be open. It's been a wild month, at least getting to swim outdoors on Sundays, and a few days before work. That makes up for the first two weird weeks of June, when the days were too freaking cold to swim outdoors. I do my final outdoor swim of the season. I don't workout here. The new equipment does not include what I need for my workout. I head out for my regular rec center for that. I wind through the residential neighborhood of dark wood fences, hook up with a main artery to the Bear Creek Trail, and finally break out of the dark wood to a hell of a view of the Rockies down a long and steep hill. I most likely won't be back this way until at least next Memorial Day. Next year, I could possibly swim before and after work during the week. I do the ride to the gym, do the workout, and ride home. For dinner, I head across the street to the Mexican place which I haven't been frequenting for some time. The long-time owner sold to someone a few years ago, who turned the place into a Mexican seafood joint. This evening, I discover that that owner has sold to the lady behind the counter, who has her own plans for the place. Interesting.
The following Monday, I detour off the trail to work and head for a supermarket for my annual flu shot. This detour takes me through one park which used to be popular with homeless. They have been few and far between around these parts, and everywhere I usually ride. I do stop to take off my windbreaker, and I spot a homeless pickup truck with a cab at the other end of the park. It's parked along the curb. When I get back on my bike, the pickup is driving away. In the parking lot for the park is another homeless vehicle. The front end is smashed up. The grille and bumper are missing. Inside, a woman is asleep on the reclined driver's seat. When I get home, a huge construction dumpster is in my parking lot. Humpty Dumpster. I check my mail and find the "energy" bill. I write it out and take it out to the mailbox. Across the street, at the corner of a refurbished apartment building, is a spot popular with homeless. A trio of them are there now. two have bicycles, and one is on a scooter. One of the cyclists gives the other a push to get his bike going. His bike has a gas-powered motor and he takes off. After the push, he jumps on his own bike and goes after him, laughing. The following morning, I get up and open the drapes to my back patio. I can see over the fence a Sherrif vehicle slowly backing into a hidden spot in our parking lot. A trio of guys are standing under a big tree in our parking lot, as if they are waiting to go to work. A couple of hours later, I hear a woman crying, men laughing, and a single male giving instructions. It's the resident who has had her porch full of junk, and who hasn't paid her HOA monthly dues in a couple of years. Her porch has prevented our insurance company from underwriting our property. The main tenant appeared to be a woman in a headwrap. This morning, she has replaced the guys underneath the tree, along with a couple of kids sitting on the curb in the shade. A young woman is also standing with her. The kids sit next to a collapsible cart. I'm leaving for work and ride out of the lot right past them. I hear the woman sobbing and telling the young woman, "I don't give a fuck what happens to me, I'm worried about these kids." the daughter replies, "Don't worry mom, we'll take care of them." In the entire time I have seen her, I've previously never seen her concerned about anything. Later on in the evening, I run into my next-door neighbor. He's HOA president. He lets me know that the place she lived in has a landlord, and she was a renter. But she was responsible for paying the HOA monthly fee. Whether it was her furniture or the landlord's, it's piled high in the dumpster now. My neighbor and I ponder the relationships of these people under the tree this morning. Whose kids are they? And what happened to a guy who was seen coming out of her place to walk a dog, and uses a wooden walking stick? My neighbor lets me know that it was her landlord who arranged for the Sherrif, and who paid for the dumpster and whoever cleared out the townhome. In an unrelated discussion, he mentions an old couch of his I've been keeping for him in my carport. He wants to take this opportunity to put it into the big dumpster with the other furniture. I help him carry it into his carport. He and his brother plan on taking out to the dumpster at 3 AM tomorrow morning.
It's Thursday of the last week of the month. After we close tomorrow, I will have stayed a total of 4 hours after close this week. This late afternoon, I'm coming home on the trail from work. Approaching me is a pedicab, a three-wheeled tricycle with two wheels in the front, one on each side of a long seat. It's a kind of tricycle taxi. There may not have been much work for them downtown, as the pedestrian mall was there bread and butter. And the mall is closed for renovations until next year. The pedicab coming toward me has a passenger on the seat, a woman with a grey perm. Her hands are folded and she stares ahead of her. Friday, I'm again working open to what will be more than an hour past close. I'm coming down the long street a block from my own at 4:30 AM. Coming out of a street ahead in the dark is a homeless cyclist. He's in a dark jacket and camouflaged pants. On his back is a pack with assorted items secured to the outside, including a fishing pole. Something is not quite right. He's pushing the bike with his left foot instead of pedaling. I get closer and notice his right pant leg. His right leg is missing. It's not long until I'm out on the trail. I'm not even to the first bridge when out of the weeds along a golf course jumps a beaver. Its flat tail is flapping against the cement and the moonlight shines off its back. I almost run over the damned thing. I do with it what I do with other cyclists. 'Are you going first, or am I?' The following day, I'm on my way home after work, coming down the long street a block from my own. Lately, I've been crossing my boulevard along this street, and I do the same this afternoon. I cross onto a wheelchair ramp onto the sidewalk. Right there is the homeless cyclist missing a leg. Same camouflaged pants. He's young. He pulls over under a tree so I may pass. Interesting end to what feels as though it's been a long month. The afternoon again is 87 degrees F. I know it won't last and am enjoying it while it persists.
