A GLÆDED AREA

Two dogs on leashes approached, and respectfully smelled at each other. Their humans, sadly, did not do the same. It's rare if people do that. Sunlight drenched the scene. Today is street cleaning on this side of the street, and it was too noisy, so I hurried up the hill to get away from the slow-moving sweep-vehicle, and did not stay to continue observing them.
I don't really like discordant noise, so I tend to evaporate when possible. Which characterizes my interactions with the rancid old fossils in the backroom at work, who take joy in swearing at each other and hurling rhetorical abuse. They particularly dislike where another person's head is at. Whichever other person. Whoever. He's wrong, damned wrong.
And undoubtedly the worst moron to roam the earth.

If it weren't for the calming effect of cigars and liquor, and the snug constraints of their incontinence pants, they'd probably engage in gladitorial combat. They are elderly, disappointed in life, and Republicans. They fling rhetorical pooh.

Quite often I wish I was allowed to use a cattle prod.

Old fascist men need to be medicated.

Or straightjacketed.

Today is a day off, and I was planning to get up later, but at six o'clock I decided to fix myself my first cup of coffee and head on out for a stroll and a pipeful. This neighborhood can be delightful early in the morning when the sun is shining.

I enjoy my days off. At the end of several days at work in Marin I am not quite sane. This may be because I am nearer the age when men sit in corners with their glasses of brandy or port wine and reminisce about their great deeds during the Crimean war, and complaining about this modern generation and their queer fondness for horseless carriages.

Being away from Marin and those old bastards is restorative.

They are too modern for port wine or brandy.

And never did any great deeds.

Which sours them.


Sometimes people should be shouted at or they will never know how stupid they are.


When I returned and fixed my second cup of coffee I noticed that a pair of wood doves have made a home beyond the drain pipe at the far end of the airwell. That corner of the building is unoccupied, and they will not be disturbed. Chirpy tweets and coos whenever one of them arrives with food. At some point, presumably, there will be attempts at flight by the juveniles. Which should be interesting. My landlady, who lives downstairs, directly below me, will probably discover the hapless chick(s) when sweeping there and be distressed.
Probably keen to get them off the ground before the cat gets out.

I like wild doves. They're sort of like city pigeons' more genteel and cultured country squire cousins. Not brash, rude, or likely to sound like a tough guy from the Bronx.
Rather pretty small birds.



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