By Parson Thru
Monday is basura night. They come at fairly regular intervals through the night: the cardboard, the plastic and the organic. Plus a mystery truck that seems to do a double circuit.
If I’m under before 1230, and stay that way, I can sleep through the whole lot pretty much. Age dictates a trip to empty my bladder, but I can usually do that without fully waking up.
Two coffees yesterday is probably the culprit. It isn’t work stress. Not these days, anyway. Work, at least, seems to have settled into a kind of rhythm. A stimulating rhythm, like the salsa on the café radio. Two strong coffees is too much for me. The first was an act of kindness by a student; the second, force of habit; neither could be refused. So here I am.
I’ve read a chapter of Hemingway. A cliché, yes, but I keep getting bogged. Is it pretentiousness to pick up all these classic texts and get bogged down: Joyce, Solzhenitsyn, Kafka? Or a genuine need to travel their paths?
The caffeine makes me uncomfortable. My mind spins, my legs tingle and my bowel feels like it’s inhabited by a churning mass of young eels. Probably IBS.
It’s going to be another exhausting Tuesday. Would I give this up? For what?
N asked if I’ve considered the cost of repatriation if I should drop down dead. Why? For whom? It’s just basura. They have many ways of disposing of that here.