It may seem a bit indulgent, but I feel like if I don’t say something my readership will learn to gloss over rather than listen for me. I’ve been working extra intensely for the past 2-3 weeks, and have not seemed to find any time to read or write, much less get a satifactory balance of sleep and food. I am painting houses this summer, for those of you who don’t know, and regularly put in 10 or more hours a day 4-5 days a week. I will be on my last house this next week, which should be relatively relaxing considering it’s a 5-minute walk from my apartment. In that time I hope to get back on track. This weekend even, being extra long due to the Labour Day holiday, I might write an entry.
Thank you to those keeping a look out for me.
As a side-note, when I was riding downtown to drop off a library book the other night, there was something of a demonstration on the Hawthorne Bridge. By this I mean that a crowd of 2-300 people blocked my way on the otherwise large and bike-friendly path that takes me across the Willamette River. They were holding up signs demanding that the war end, and smiled with disgustingly smug satisfaction.
They were making a difference.
I was struck by a number of things. The first was the predominantly white, obviously middle to upper-middle class constituency of the group. I saw at least three people with sweaters wrapped around their shoulders like Hawvawd prep-jerks. There was music being played and children running around. People beamed with stupid grins as they held up their signs and got honks; they were really enjoying preaching to the choir. A song started to run in my head by the middle of the way through the crowd, a Beatles’ song: Why Don’t We Do it In the Road.
The song is—apparently—not so obviously about having sex in the road. Purportedly, McCartney was inspired by a monkey hit and run copulation he witnessed in India. I began to wonder to myself though, why aren’t they in the road? They’re on a frickin’ bridge, nicely staying out of the way of the cars, who honk almost as mindlessly, and yet they’re purportedly expressing their frustration with the war. I quickly turned the observation back on myself, who clearly could be in the road as well, especially for being so aware that it was much provocative a gesture than sign-masturbating. I don’t really have an excuse, but I like to think I had to get to the library before it closed. It was late, and I was already tired from working like a dog and riding all over town to retrieve said book for its return.
However, as I cleared the crowd, to my delighted surprise, a lady screeched, “Someone’s in the road!” I rode on thinking through the possibilities. When I came back though, the crowd was largely cleared. It was time to go home and go to bed, because there was work to do in the morning. The drums keep pounding rhythm into the brain.