![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
we love you back though
I am so exhausted from the weekend... I'd like to say it's the heat and mugginess after the torrential rains throughout the morning today, but it's not solely that. I semi-ranted to a listening ear earlier this evening about some stupid stuff that happened... mainly involving people who've been alive far too long to really have any excuses left for why they still find themselves capable of acting like uncharitable assholes to other people.
And who are a sure card to get angry and persist in arguments. I wasn't the recipient of that. I like peacemakers to say the least though, because they are always smarter. Not the weak-willed kinds that back down and do it just because, though I'll take them over irrational soldiers any day. The ones that know what bullshit smells like and purposely know they're done with it in their life are where it's at.
Today we finished another stage of cleaning out my grandmother's home after her death this past winter--I was not very close to her although I feel I should have been, and yet I think I was - not in one iota being praiseful - probably one of the most reverent about how to deal with everything in the place, and the simple reality of what exactly we were doing. I walk into the house and see 60 years of unknown memories permeating the place, that my aunt and uncle and parents speak of as we go about the task of moving furniture about and parceling out will dictations.
My aunt and cousin are likely my witting partners in knowing the seriousness - but also the goodness in what we are doing. They are coincidentally the part we are "estranged" from but not really for any reason other than my mother's side of the family had a lot of chaos and tumult that eventually split most of them apart, and even my aunt and her mother in the last years.
The only items that I decided to claim as 'my own' were a small framed painting on glass of the sacred and immaculate hearts, as well as copies of This Side of Paradise, Wuthering Heights, The Winter of Our Discontent by Steinbeck, The Old Man and the Sea, a beaten up 1950 printing of The Greatest Story Ever Told, and To Kill a Mockingbird... which I started reading earlier. I think the last time I had was ninth grade right along with The Catcher in the Rye. Atticus Finch is the model upon which all lawyers and a lot of fathers ought exist (at least, as a baseline template!), but will never be I'm sure.
I sort of wish that I could write shorter, crisper entries... because I'm sure that my rarely putting down "just a sentence" has got to be a turn off. Every so often I feel like I have something that short and pointed to just slop up... yet it always seems like by the time I think of doing it, I'm already on to something else.
On the way to a corner store to pick up some batteries on a whim, I walked past all the construction that's going on doing that strip in Berkeley - and Berkeley is such an old division of Detroit. With the cloud cover, the damp, the destroyed road with hilltops of dirty rubble and the massive demolishing machines sleeping by the roadside while the workers had the weekend off... it felt distinctly not at all like Michigan, or even North America, even though my only eye to places outside is in photographs.
Oftentimes I feel that the difference between here and anywhere else in the world while, large and not at all assuring the same safeties as one's own homeland with one's own peoples, customs, laws, and agreed upon principles... hell, you don't even get that just walking down the street in your own neighborhoods, but regardless, is fundamentally minimal.
The wrecked street and machines were appropriate, but actually, on rainy days where brick or concrete walls get soaked, I never think of them as mere building sides. They always remind me of sea walls instead.
And who are a sure card to get angry and persist in arguments. I wasn't the recipient of that. I like peacemakers to say the least though, because they are always smarter. Not the weak-willed kinds that back down and do it just because, though I'll take them over irrational soldiers any day. The ones that know what bullshit smells like and purposely know they're done with it in their life are where it's at.
Today we finished another stage of cleaning out my grandmother's home after her death this past winter--I was not very close to her although I feel I should have been, and yet I think I was - not in one iota being praiseful - probably one of the most reverent about how to deal with everything in the place, and the simple reality of what exactly we were doing. I walk into the house and see 60 years of unknown memories permeating the place, that my aunt and uncle and parents speak of as we go about the task of moving furniture about and parceling out will dictations.
My aunt and cousin are likely my witting partners in knowing the seriousness - but also the goodness in what we are doing. They are coincidentally the part we are "estranged" from but not really for any reason other than my mother's side of the family had a lot of chaos and tumult that eventually split most of them apart, and even my aunt and her mother in the last years.
The only items that I decided to claim as 'my own' were a small framed painting on glass of the sacred and immaculate hearts, as well as copies of This Side of Paradise, Wuthering Heights, The Winter of Our Discontent by Steinbeck, The Old Man and the Sea, a beaten up 1950 printing of The Greatest Story Ever Told, and To Kill a Mockingbird... which I started reading earlier. I think the last time I had was ninth grade right along with The Catcher in the Rye. Atticus Finch is the model upon which all lawyers and a lot of fathers ought exist (at least, as a baseline template!), but will never be I'm sure.
I sort of wish that I could write shorter, crisper entries... because I'm sure that my rarely putting down "just a sentence" has got to be a turn off. Every so often I feel like I have something that short and pointed to just slop up... yet it always seems like by the time I think of doing it, I'm already on to something else.
On the way to a corner store to pick up some batteries on a whim, I walked past all the construction that's going on doing that strip in Berkeley - and Berkeley is such an old division of Detroit. With the cloud cover, the damp, the destroyed road with hilltops of dirty rubble and the massive demolishing machines sleeping by the roadside while the workers had the weekend off... it felt distinctly not at all like Michigan, or even North America, even though my only eye to places outside is in photographs.
Oftentimes I feel that the difference between here and anywhere else in the world while, large and not at all assuring the same safeties as one's own homeland with one's own peoples, customs, laws, and agreed upon principles... hell, you don't even get that just walking down the street in your own neighborhoods, but regardless, is fundamentally minimal.
The wrecked street and machines were appropriate, but actually, on rainy days where brick or concrete walls get soaked, I never think of them as mere building sides. They always remind me of sea walls instead.