money isn’t important to me

So as to be transparent about the whole process, i moved all my shit from 53rd street in hyde park, a neighborhood i have lived in on and off for seven years (and still work in) and drove it in a borrowed white jeep grand cherokee laredo edition to a dignified rental property somewhere in the badlands between pilsen and little village (read: little village). all of this is fine. the cat is fine. but on one of the last or penultimate or semipenultimate walks to work down dorcester avenue i had a mildly affecting experience (it is getting milder with the passage of time).

camera eye:
walking down s. dorchester avenue to work. an old man, bundled up to face cold weather in a decidely old-fashioned way. giant dog with jowls. nobel winner? cranky grandpa? dog is peeing at behest of owner. i smile at both. dog tilts head at me. old man doesn’t react other than a piercing gaze. make this less ohmo.

unplaceable eastern european lady asking me for directions to the medical center. kid in backseat. some kind of unspoken problem always expresses itself to me when asked for directions to the hospital? something crappy happend in their weird dented foreign life.

bah whatever. it’s 4:37 and i’ve been wasting time at work on and off for two hours. it might be time for me to go home. some shit about battlestar galactica, a weird nonsensical comparison of johan santana to a revolutionary war general, a misplaced rap lyric. fuck this, for like five minutes then. i am going to try to finish invisible man, think about john ashbery without actually any reading any of his poetry, then contemplate some kind of weird flickering idea that the internet gave me. instead i should just go to an arts and crafts store. i had an idea about trying to start painting.