Bland

Have I told you how much I hate this new Google Blogger format?  It was created for frustration.  It is the Covid version of the old one.  

The only thing as boring as hearing about someone's hopes, dreams, and desires is. . . well, maybe nothing.  I almost fell into the trap here, but saved us at the last moment.  

Whew. 

Let's just hear about what happened, see.  Tell us a story, woncha?  Or give us some good critical analysis. 

I don't have much of that today.  Nothing happens that is of great or reasonable interest.  I got the new washer yesterday.  It's a real, cheap dandy.  There is nothing exciting about a washing machine.  

I got my car back yesterday, too.  My travel/art buddy took me to get it, so I didn't have to walk.  The price of things is always more than you expected unless you are shopping at Aldis or Trader Joes.  The $445 washer cost over $600.  The car was over $700.  That's a fine day.  At least the washer is new.  When I picked up the car, I was excited to drive it home like it was a new car.  It wasn't.  Same old car, only with good brakes and a driver side window that now works.  

So let me load you up with pictures from my walk back from the repair shop two days ago.  Many of my Covid walks have been down the same streets I walk ever day, the most beautiful ones.  The walks were pleasant for months.  But the beauty, though still present, was disappearing from my sight.  I needed new streets, new things.  

There are a lot of streets you can walk in four miles.  There are many ways to go, and though perhaps not as beautiful, they often many surprises.  

The walk back from the auto shop was brand new.  I walked down a major transportation artery for quite a way, six lanes with a medium, a hundred stop lights, new business offices, giant apartment complexes, and old buildings that were built long ago when the road was less travelled.  I took photos all along the way, but they looked just like what you see from the car, just that drab commercial landscape built for expediency and profit.  

As soon as I could, though, I turned off into a small industrial strip that led to the neighborhoods I was familiar with. 

At a large building with no real identification about what went on there or who was inside, I spied this weird statue of a buck, back arched, neck stretched long,  in the middle of some ancient, primal howl.  From the look of those antlers, he is desperate to attract a mate.  The statue was hideous, and I had to wonder who would have thought to buy such a thing.  I couldn't see into the big, reflective plate glass windows, and there were probably people watching me photograph the buck just on the other side who wondered why someone would take a photograph of such a hideous thing.  As always, I expected someone to come out and yell at me for taking pictures.  

"Oh, hi, yes, well. . . you see, I'm from the Antiques Road Show, and I wonder, do you have any idea what this thing is worth?!?"  

As I say, this is an industrialized area and not a desirable part of town, for residences but just a block away, across from another industrial building, there was a residential property with a. . . what do I call it?. . .  a tall sign declaring "ART" in the backyard.  I think it was the backyard.  What the hell, I wondered, is this the residence of an artist or of someone named Art?  I may go back one day to find out.  I'll stand outside and yell, "Art. . . Art. . ." until someone comes out.  

While I was on the highway, as I passed under the train tracks that ran overhead, I saw this. 

A hobo camp!  What a place to live, I thought, in the great southern summer heat and humidity.  The mosquitoes must be terrible at night, and who knows what other biting insects.  Well, at least there was shelter from the rain.  I took a couple pictures, but I didn't stay long.  I had no desire to strike up a conversation with the resident.

The August storms have come, and they are intense.  The lightning strikes, according to everyone, are worse than ever.  My neighborhood newsletter was abuzz about a particular strike the other night that seemed to have the same impact as the Beirut explosion, rattling houses for far too long.  It seemed an earthquake, everything in the house rattling and shaking.  People speculated much about what it might have been.  I was on the phone with my mother right after it happened, and each of us wondered if something hadn't exploded.  

Last night, lightning and thunder lit and rattled the house for a very long time.  

Now I must prepare for the wrecking crew.  I get to wash my sheets in the new washing machine.  That is about it for excitement in my drab existence.  But drab, I think, is a blessing right now, for far worse is on the horizon.  The Armies of the Night are on the move.