Is it too much to expect a sanctuary from other people's self-induced bullshit?!
Michael asked agitatedly in Women vs. Men. He's talking about the neighborhood divorcee who, after kicking her husband out and asking for a divorce, has been pissed off because he actually left ever since; drunkenly going on and on about it, from man to man. It reminds me of The Good Reverend Doctor Purify, holding forth at the dinner table, practically bible-toting and scripture-quoting about the sin of race-mixing. His wife, Lucinda, incredulous and exasperated, finally says "YOU invited her!" while their son and white girlfriend sit steaming at the table.
Sometimes the bullshit gets so foul you forget it's your own; bystanders unwittingly affected by the eruptions flick shitty bits off themselves for long afterwards, sometimes years, anquished because they stood so close.
It's Hard to Keep a House Clean when You Have A Dog
I seconded this offering from one of the subterranean shantytown inhabitants in Dark Days, a beautifully shot, empathically edited documentary film I caught this morning. Fantastic work. Kudos to Marc Singer and Melissa Neidich (Like they need 'em from me! The movie was a winner at Sundance in 2000). You forget, while the folks cook dinner, raise dogs, groom each other, squabble, sweep, talk about their neighbors who don't keep up their property, that these are mostly crack-addicts, in lean-tos they built themselves, devoid of running water, living underground with haunting memories from their lives up top. Excellent. And visually... stunning, but I digress.
It's quieted down for now and I've resumed some semblance of domesticity, doing laundry AND dishes last night, even vacuming (I'm never quite sure whether it's two c's or two u's...). Sleep deprivation made me outgoing and good-tempered yesterday morning, but near the end of it, I was calling people out of their name, as they say, and just generally, needing to lie down! I've had people in from the West Coast with divergent schedules and interests so the boozing and carousing has exceeded the usual, and seguing not-so-neatly with the semblance of a social life I've been patching together of late. You get tired, man, and melodrama. This is why people play bridge instead, I figure. No matter. Soon enough it'll no longer be about me-- school starts next week. My friend, J, contends that we Leos think everything is about us. I wondered, "what do you mean, think?". It's all about you, Keauki. Goodonya. See you there.
Let me fold these clothes..