Then there was the one guy who yelled "bitch" at me as I walked to the bank machine at the end. Don't know what that was about. I'd call his drive-by heckle an unfortunate way to end my contact with humans for a while, but it was maybe more unfortunate to have had all those strangers---I'm telling you, it was a dozen, easy---doing that friendly thing. Kinda like bigfinedaddy and I were talking about recently, about versions of alone.
Speaking of BFD, she took me to see Mon Meilleur Ami last night. It features, among other things, extreme clumsiness in interpersonal relations. Oddly topical to me, this week. And, too, as Bruno says in the film, "Everybody's the same as nobody."
More compelling, and emotionally more difficult, is the stint of "House" I'm engaged in. Watched all 5 on the first disc of season 2 the other night. Watched another two episodes last night, late; watched another one just now. Paused for air. It's at a pretty dark spot right now. I don't like lingering here, but it's a truth to be in, not to shirk from.
A smart, funny, somewhat mischievous guy had his last day at MR today. He's leaving us for the dead. I don't know him so well as I'd like to; that's how that goes sometimes. Among things he seems contemplative about is how artifacts of popular culture draw in dorks---a flavor of bright and wounded. Apart from the obvious value of an "in" reference/joke, and the sci fi future kind of philosophizing, there's also just the trying to cobble together a sense of what may be what, here in the world of people. Representations of realities. Ideas. Cogitations upon "What the hell's going on?" Other people's proffered depictions of some version of how it seems to be for them, or for some they know or have known.
That's often what's doing the deed when Maud seems to have put me in front of art, to have put art in front of me.
Nothing makes sense, yet we go on, getting a sense, trying to make sense of it. Or going to get a glass of water and maybe go to bed early.