Lemonade and cookies too-- buck per small one, two for double. But no kids or snacks in view. Hope they didn't get in trouble. Selling food without approval could get them a hefty fine, also physical removal if they refused to resign. Disappointment scribed in ink, menu purple, blue, and black. I would really like a drink. Hopefully they're coming back.
57
Lemonade for me. Cookies made for me. Sign displayed for me. None purveyed for me. Wish they'd stayed for me.
56
Heavenly Healing on mall lower level, PA's largest metaphysical store. Incense and candles to enthrall the devil, crystals, massage, carvings, workshops, and more. Went to the website to read testimonials: "Love magnet kit worked immediately. Root chakra tincture made husband quite jovial after I dabbed it perineally." Get a free crystal when you book your first class as an enticement to sign up online. Selenite missile to stick inside your ass, has no flared base, but, don't worry, it's fine.
55
I think this tree is growing little trees, with shoots and leaves that rise and brush my knees. The root projects extensions disconcertingly. Are trees just branches that were sprouted vertically? What happens if they continue to grow and never turn or bend at an elbow? Can they elongate rapidly and rise up to an apogee that punches through the canopy and escapes the earth's gravity? It seems unlikely that I'll ever know.
54
Since sudden summer's storms sonorously spread serenity across smouldering skies, in shade beneath softened sunlight now splashing surrenderingly not scorchingly, I sit, spying, sidelong, surreptitiously, smirking slightly with just my eyes, as a stream of small sons stomps along, siblings certainly, in society or sanguinity, striding, spinning, sauntering, to survey a spread of string, stretched across the grass, crisscrossing, laced, spanning and splitting the space, a strewn simulacrum of--"LASERS! SAM!" Sneaking, but in opposite of silence, shouting, smiling, "I'm stuck! I can't pass!", seven scions successively step and straddle the slots in sequence, strand by sizzling strand.
53
(no images for this yet, but I'll fix that soon) Some parts of this city I really adore, but other parts I cannot help but deplore for being unloved and un-cared-for eyesores against whom the city appears to wage war. The parts of the city where people are poor are left to decay and avoided by tours, neglected, abandoned, with boarded up doors, no trees on the street, vandal tags for decor, just pawn shops and junk food and check cashing stores. The stark subdivisions are hard to ignore between parts with less and the parts with much more. So sometimes I ask myself when feeling sore, do I love Philly as much as before? And yet when I walk there's no end to the nice parts away from the empty lots, garbage, and Walmart. It feels like on each block there's some kind of fine art, a mural, mosaic, or sculpture to impart a vision of what we desire to be if one day we struggle less with poverty, a park over here shading benches with trees, a pool over there, people swimming for free, a cat in a windowsill naps languidly, and thrift stores and pho shops with noodles and tea, and strangers on dog walks nod smiling at me, and neighborhood gardens abundant with blooms are filling the air with sweet honey perfumes, and parents with drinks watching children with chalk drawing cute diagrams on the sidewalk. I wander for months and the joy never ends, so why am I only attached to my friends? Is it my mentality? My modality? My tonality? Duality in my capacity for vivacity? Is it the city, or is it me?
Subscribe via Atom