I had a bunch of film to develop from mine and Trisa's amateur photography escapades, so I set my alarm for 10am, and about an hour after I stirred at the sound of the little metal bells being rapidly struck, I began the innocuous uneventful little vacation from the heaviness that'd formed in my heart Saturday night.
I walked through the despicable, festering black heart meat air to the Save-On, and the One Hour Photo contained therein.
Actually the photos turned out to be of the variety that requires more like an hour and a half to develop, which was well enough for a fellow like myself, perfectly capable of amusing himself by staring out into space indefinitely.
But as it happened, there were a few amusements to be had at this parking lot. First was a happy little jaunt to the bank where I got to make a withdrawal. After that, 'twas a springy little dash to the air-conditioned Radio Shack, workplace of Magious.
So it was chapter 1 of Sunday was a contented roll in the brain-damaging heat.
Chapter 2 began with the introduction of the Trisa character, into the tale.
She joined me at this computer to work with the photos, 98% of which were beautiful visions of her, while the remaining were a couple pictures of me, one of which, you might have noticed, has come to roost on my journal, looking, I must admit, a great deal less mentally impaired than the previous picture.
Afterwards, we both looked at Cryptess's journal, and I for one was a little distressed by her current state of mind . . . but feeling completely unequal to consoling her. Although--if you're reading this Cryptess, you know you've plenty of places to go if things really do fall apart, this place being one of them. But take a good hard look and make sure things are really no longer as you like them.
It's true, I think we can learn a lot from pain, but I still see no reason to actively seek it, especially when anything's possible.
. . . after reading Cryptess's journal, Trisa and I watched her new DVD collection of Morrissey videos, and we both fell in love him all over again.
We then paid a visit to Starbucks, where we stayed long enough to hear Tom Waits's Alice play in the Store, and to have a conversation I'm not entirely certain if I regret or not, about her internet friend John. I guess I was trying to hold up a mirror--"I tried to help her out of a bind I guess but I used a little too much force," as Bob Dylan would say.
It seems like a lot of the people I've been close to in my life have a had a capacity for love so large, that they're a bit a afraid of it, and try contain it or corral it with complicated stratagems, involving specific criteria for how romance can be played. I suppose I can understand the desire to protect the more sensitive and vulnerable portions of one's self.
Learning from pain--perhaps the only value one can glean (nice word, ne?) from a traumatic experience, is the ability to clearly see how innocuous all of the things that one might have been afraid of before in fact are.
Well, I've some pictures I've promised to send Trisa, I suppose I'd better get on it . . .