dangerous compassions

I call you / from the comet's cradle

Friday, September 11, 2015


We went to the university farmers market.  It was 97 degrees outside.  I thought about getting a pumpkin for donation, grown at a school garden.  I thought about getting a rainbow lanyard from the Rastafarians.  I counseled someone about what to do with yellow squash.  I don't know if she thought I worked there.  I got some hugs.  And then it was time to go.

So Ming and JR went to the ATM with JR's friend C who was being abrasive in the car, and I was hoping C didn't always act like that.  "He's a kid," JR told me later.

"Just because he's a kid doesn't mean he's allowed to be mean," I said.

They dropped me off at Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and I said goodbye.  But then I went to the Indian food restaurant next door instead.

It seemed new.  I ordered my usual--malai kofta.  It was pretty good but they served it strangely.  I should have taken a picture for you.  The rice was in a styrofoam to go container, and the malai kofta was in a round metal to go container.  You know, sort of like a pie plate with crenelations.  Not the smooth kind--the bumpy kind.

I wrote in my journal and wrote a letter to my friend M who lives in North Carolina.  The guys were done at the ATM way faster than I thought they would be.  They were unimpressed.  Then we went to Ethiopian food, and I didn't eat because I was full from the Indian food.

In the evening Ming and G went to a peace vigil that never was.  It was supposed to start at 6 at the federal building, but no one was there, so they gave up.  Only one other person showed up.  Maybe it was moved or canceled and no one announced it.


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