Mourning the loss of Borders (but celebrating my Carver and Kerouac finds at 66% off the cover price), I head out on a walk. More of a stroll, actually. I classify it as a stroll because it was through a city park and I had my hands in my pockets, which seem to be two key factors in strolling. Parks and pockets. So anyway, here is my stream of consciousness while on my stroll. Streams and strolls.
The men I've loved (men? guys? people? I never know quite what to call them) have all loved sneakers. Big sneakers. Clunky, bright hi-tops. And I've loved them regardless. I've also loved them guard-less, my walls non-existent. But those walls, that guard, can go up in an instant over the seemingly smallest thing. Walls and guards. Sneakers and sneaks.
The house I love appears to have installation art in their side yard. A white door, on its side, next to a child's mattress decorated with hot air balloons, on its side, next to six tires and an aluminum trash can inside of a rusty wheelbarrow. Art and trash. Trash and art. Art is trash. We are trash. We are the most delicate trash, purity through the disguise of disgust.
I love all of the houses I pass. Mid-20th century homes. I never want to know what they look like on the inside or who lives there. It and they will just disappoint. Keep the walls alive in my mind. Walls and minds.
Is 27 too late of an age to develop really bad habits? Shouldn't I be cleaning up my life right now instead of welcoming vices with open arms? Most of the time my arms are closed, folded tightly around my chest, avoiding eye contact, creating museum masterpieces from the patterns on the sidewalk.
Walks and walls and parks and strolls.
It's a beautiful evening, a cathedral in the sky.