Friday, August 23, 2002

It’s one of those cloudy days that make colors seem brighter. A new contender for my favorite door appeared on Sullivan St., #174, a lovely mellow raspberry set in a slate blue townhouse. Oh so tasty-looking. Apparently I am not the only one who is noticing colors today, as a cyclist (dressed all in white, on a white vehicle) complimented me on my color combination (bright red, burgundy, and hot pink). Cheered me right up, that did, which I needed, as I had a nasty fiscal surprise this morning.

Am certain that if I were to visit a psychic reader right now, she’d tell me I have major upheaval going on in my home and money planets. Not that being told so would help much. I guess people just like to have their suspicions confirmed. "Yes, you ARE artistic and hot tempered." "Aha! I knew it!"

I saw again today the Bum of Many Colors—and coats, for that matter. He walks about festooned with a variety of children’s clothing, so that he seems to be a large feathered creature trailing a multicolored peacock’s tail of little sweaters, T-shirts, and jackets. Pinks, blues, greens, you name it. He’s crazy, of course. The first time I saw him he yelled "Bitch!" repeatedly. I couldn’t tell whether he was actually addressing me or not, so I moved on quickly just in case. The second time I crossed the street to avoid him—and also to examine more closely a federal period townhouse, its bricks freshly scrubbed and looking especially brick-colored (thanks to the aforementioned clouds).

Thursday, August 22, 2002

Fussy, fumey mood today, and for the last several. I am having a delayed stress reaction to 9/11, it seems. Seriously. Sucks because everyone else had theirs closer to the event, and so now people will just think I am being a pill. Which I am. But for good reason.

I saw a celebrity on the street today whom I once was told I resembled. Oddly, it made me even crankier. I feel so old, so frumpy these days, wearing glasses and clothes I don’t like, my hair all flabby and ugly, that seeing her in the flesh just made me more conscious of how little I resemble her at all, anymore.

For six months after the 11th, I rode a bicycle to work and home again, every day, rain, shine, hail, you name it. I was lean, I was buff, I was a traffic terror. I felt wonderful. Now I haven’t been on the two-wheeled creature in nearly as long as all that time I rode it, and I feel fat and old and out of shape and uglier to boot. Am not accustomed to such sensations of self-worthlessness. Had given them up for Lent after teen years as counterproductive and generally no fun.

Wonder why the hell they decided on a return visit. More like a return storming of the castle.