Cold, rainwashed Monday morphed into sunny Tuesday which gave way to clear, windy Wednesday, today, a hot and postcard-perfect Southern California day.
Crawling through traffic to pick up the daughter, my mind wanders. Waves of heat shimmer off the truck in front of me, and the guardrails at the train crossing shimmy and shiver in the fractured light.
Chicken piccata, I think, or chicken curry. Rice, I think. Salad, I think.
Tacos, I decide.
The brassy, insistently bright beat of mariachi music from another car assaults my closed windows. Kids shriek at one another, their aggressive voices echoing in the freeway underpass. Waiting at another red light, I am startled by sudden screams, but it is only a hyperactive individual dressed like the Statue of Liberty, advertising tax preparation services on the opposite corner.
A semester has passed, I think. Only seven more.
This is how I delineate, count off the time for this particular task. It is Wednesday; I only have to do this twice more this week. Two days off, five days on. I don't see the adventure in it, the idiots sauntering slowly across the middle of Main Street as an emergency vehicle screams toward them. I am mystified by these people who push baby carriages and shopping carts into rush hour traffic, dragging small children off the curb with them.
The daughter chirps beside me, happily chewing the Red Vine I brought her, while I count down traffic lights and curse quietly at a camper that crosses three lanes of traffic and cuts me off.
FAFSA, I think, and taxes. Birthdays, I think. Doctors appointments, I think.
A new blender, I remember.
My time is broken, and my energies are scattered. If I can only finish...I think, but what needs to be finished becomes time-scale calculus.
Tomorrow is a new day, I think, and I will conquer.
Go listen to some music: "Ready to Start" from the album The Suburbs by Arcade Fire. This is my 1,000 post, and it's meaningful, all the more so because I'm giving myself over to you again.