Still Nothing to Say
September 8, 1996
There's a scar-faced, crewcut biker in a muscle shirt pacing back and
forth outside waiting for my next door neighbor to come home. Right
outside my gate. My neighbor dates some interesting guys and has some
really interesting parties. Also a steady stream of roommates who
don't stay long. I think she's taken the unit off the market because
I haven't seen the realtor around lately. In my more paranoid and
self-loathing moods I wonder if the prospective buyers have been
driven away by the wretched state of my yard (I haven't mowed the
lawn yet this summer!) or by the tiny rainbow flag in my window or my
disheveled state on Sunday afternoons. But I know I'm a heck of a lot
quieter to live next door to than my next door neighbor. Ah, said
neighbor has returned and the guy has gone inside with her. Anyway, I
think she decided not to sell - after all my back walk offers perfect
motorcycle parking.
I spent the morning reviewing and sorting 3 boxes of slides from
the trip, filed 'em in order, selected 21 to have printed, took 'em
to the lab, and schmoozed with Tom over coffee for a bit. Then I
tackled the mountain of bills and correspondance that has built up
over the past 3 weeks. Plus a little time for adding to the on-line
trip report and a short e-mail to let my friends know I'm back. That
took the afternoon. I've got about 25 minutes before I have to meet
my walking buddies for our evening walk and then I'll sack out with
the Red Sox game on the radio. Sounds like a pretty meaningful life
to me.
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