First was the young woman staffing a table for some political cause or other. Leaflet in hand, she called out to me:
Oh, miss. If you had any idea. Yes, yes I do. Much of my energy over the past day or two has been spent with that fight: engaging it, calming it, confessing it, diffusing it, wrestling with it, fearing it. Yes, I've got some fight in me—at least my share, if not more.
How about you? You look like you've got some fight in you, don't you?
On the next go-round, God revealed His sense of humor in the midst of my struggle. There on the corner, on a couch, blowing bubbles, were mimes. Mimes, mimes, and damn mimes. If ever there were a culturally acceptable outlet to vent my aggression, it would be mimes—no court in the country would convict me. And, when I returned to that corner a scant three minutes later, they and their couch were gone. I was the victim of a run-by miming.
The potluck was good: great Mexican food, good conversation, Rebecca sharing her story. I was largely relaxed, but three hours is still my upper limit at such functions.
Today is a twelve-hour work day; not much more to say about that just now.
Since I opted not to cart my PowerBook with me through the whole day today, I'm writing longhand during a break and will enter it later. The act of writing with pen and paper, however, makes me imagine another place—the corner booth of a diner, perhaps, in a sleepy Northwest town at the foot of the mountains, with a cup of joe and a slice of apple pie next to me, scribbling in a beat-up journal with a leather cover. Things are never quite so simple, yet it's a good story nonetheless.