This is where my life happens. Most of what matters occurs somewhere on this little grid.
Should I be ashamed at my level of complacency? I think I might not want much out of life.
Mt. Vernon in the springtime is rather lovely. On Sundays, the sound of organs come from church windows. Sometimes the Monument fountains are flowing, and birds, dogs and children are frolicking in the water. Often, the fountains are empty and broken, with dirt and trash filling them instead.
I know which alleys are always full of doo-doo.
On the weekends, I walk down through the harbor, past the highway, Little Italy, and the dingy roads between there and Fells Point. I go down to Wolfe Street, on the lower right of that map, and I get my mail. That's my eastern boundary.. the post office.
Some weekend nights, I eat pizza in Fells Point and I watch the drunks fight.
Some of the people I see every day in my neighborhood have changed over the years, some are still the same.
Most of the people I've seen for years are the crack heads and the guys who stand out on the corners at night.
My car hasn't been broken into yet this year. I am waiting for that to happen again any time now. Sometimes, my heart beats fast when I am walking home alone at night.
I came home on Monday evening and Abby was playing Super Mario Brothers. She had coffee brewing, and she had done my dishes. We snacked on some THC-laden baked goods and played a few rounds of Mario, and then I went to my bedroom and watched some Adventures of Pete & Pete.
When she got home from finding dinner, we laughed at Beverly Hills 90210.
I ate some cereal and made a point to wash my bowl so that she wouldn't do it. Who knew - I'm less of a slob already. I wonder how long it will last.
Every day lately seems to promising. I always want to write about how things are progressing, but things are not progressing. I don't want them to. I want things to stay how they are now, in an endless loop up and down Charles Street, with ventures to the Dirtfarm, 90210 with Abby, fruit snacks with Jeremy, and sweet sweet complacency.
