Graffiti has history too, I learn. There are specks of revolution and discontent everywhere, and graffiti is a healthier method of expression than arms and torches.
I spent this week trying out contact lens for the first time.
Unincorporated, independent places exist, where the blues are still strong and long-haired men jam over beer at the local. I visit one, and am treated to the tastiest cioppino and an evening of dancing by the fires. I bring back memories of warmth and crabs.
There is a winery up north where I am chivvied to, on a rainy day. I am taught the fundamentals of tasting. I have a better understanding of the whites than I did going in. I am yet to find one I would choose over my favourite reds. I found a port I liked, and it was accompanied by the explanation that wine and port do not co-exist in more civilized places. The sun here is not the sun in the south of France, I realise.
I spend an evening carousing with a group of electronic dance music lovers, at a ballroom on the east side. It is not music that leaves me enthralled, but the company is lovely and the lights are bright. Good speakers and subwoofers weight a lot, or so I find when helping the DJ cart equipment.
Sibelius caucuses for a man from Vermont. His words enthuse bright about the ray of hope that he is convinced this senator is going to be. I listen to this American version of socialism and what it entails. There is a great deal about student loans and jobs. There is plenty about health and welfare. I wonder if I should explain about the Kerala model. I don’t, because it is a different context and very little applies across an ocean.
I receive news of two weddings. I can’t make sense of their choice in bridegrooms. I put that aside. There are more pressing issues at hand, and it is imperative that I make sense of those first.
The trees are old here. I am so small under their largeness. Dragonflies flit over my head and the sun shines through their wings.