without a kitchen

i met up with this friend tonight who i have known for 6 years, but have only met once. i think everybody must have at least 1 of that type of friend. we were to meet in front of the Harvard Coop and I was waiting for almost 15 minutes before I realized she was standing right behind me. And then she insisted that we go to this pizza place, which I thought was really a lame idea, considering how many really good restaurants there are around there. But it actually was not that bad. Most of the time spent listening to her talk about her almost recently failed marriage to this man she thought would be the “love of my life,” but who turned out to be an abusive sociopath and a librarian. I talked about the high rents in Boston and how I coped with living in a place without a kitchen.

One can live on oatmeal anywhere.

There’s  is also no television in the beautiful big Victorian house where I am currently staying. The owner, a self-described “leftist, lesbian, classical musician, landscape designer, interior designer and single mother” lives below me, with her really fun 10 year old daughter whom her mother confides in me is not that fun and is always getting in trouble at school and who refuses to take her A.D.D. meds.  In the room next to her’s is a very friendly gay gentleman. I wish I could remember his name. Oh, it’s Tony, I think.  I think that they think that I am gay, too. That might explain why they think I am the perfect fit. But if I stay, I fear I may disappoint them. If I leave, I fear I may disappoint them.

Above me, I hear a lot of stomping around and apparently I am hearing the footsteps of a couple whom I have not seen nor met.

But somehow, it feels more like home than my previous home where I lived for 7 years.

And right now, as I type this sentence, I cannot discern one detectable difference between my life here and my life there. I would not know one place from the other. One can live on oatmeal anywhere.


About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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