Hound’s tongue, Indian paintbrush, buttercups


See how pretty it was?

I am feeling discombobulated. Everything I touch seems to have trails of sticky mire connecting it to some other project.

I can’t explain it. A week ago I felt like I was charging through things and getting stuff done.

This week I’d like to hide under my desk and refuse to answer questions.

It’s spring break, which means campus is pretty empty, except for homeless people.

We get these solicitors at home, periodically. You’re supposed to comment on their outfits and manners and then buy magazines, which of course you don’t want. So degrading — who am I to judge their manners? They’re invariably poor African American kids who have come here from somewhere else. It’s awful, because I don’t trust the organization that’s making them go around door to door having us assess their manners, I don’t want the magazines, but I can’t help feeling awful about not giving them anything. Probably I should just hand them $20 and say, good luck, kid. The kid last night wore a white button down shirt and a pair of too-big jeans. His name was Tyrone and he was from Brooklyn, with two kids. Poor guy.

I would have given him something, but his manager showed up, and he probably would have just taken it. And $20 would not have solved the problem that he has no job, and no real prospect of getting one.



One thought on “Hound’s tongue, Indian paintbrush, buttercups

  1. This is one of the many reasons why I no longer answer the front door when it’s someone I don’t know. We have a big window on the way to the door, so I can see who is coming, and for some reason, strangers rarely look through it to see if I’m in there looking out. We get a lot of religious proselytizers, Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses and Nazarenes.

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