That’s a subject line I’m seeing as I clear out my spam folder. It’s got half the tallies it used to have. The worst offenders, the spams with the worst scores, get deleted before they get to me for a couple months now. Never seem them. Just trashed. The minor offenders make it through to the spam folder, and a few each day sneak past everything and get in the heart of my inbox. They get no love, not like they used to. They’re only sneaking by because they’ve got nothing exciting to say. And we all can put up with those, can’t we? But they’re kinda no good. A lot no good really. Nothing to flag them, nothing to salute.
The day’s feeling a little expansive at least. Morning was part two of Country Boys, the Appalachian documentary I wrote about here months ago and recorded but only made it 20 minutes into. Skipping the rest of part one, I jumped to two today and thought about the final third for later this week. Long watches of the boys’ lives, trying to dig it out in an alternative high school, booted from other spots before, sorting what alcoholism and death and poverty have left for them and not left.
Afternoon was Isaac Hayes’ Hot Buttered Soul and its eight minutes of Walk on By and twenty minutes of By the Time I Get to Phoenix, with a chaser of Al Green’s greatests album and the rest of the BMG club’s latest. There was head nodding all over the place, reptitive to the extreme but with these little jags to find out if the beat was still beating. It’s an important check.
Somewhere in between the morning and the afternoon, I was watching one squirrel chase another around this car parked on the next street over. The pair chased uder the front tires, then one dashed out and away and the other took a few seconds to take off in pursuit. A note to all the kids out there? I’m not Patrick Cooper the children’s book author who’s written, among other things, Never Trust a Squirrel. If you e-mail me, as you did last week and have before, I’ll be happy to forward your message to him. I’ve done it before and have always found him very nice. But if you’re reading this, I’m not him.
But back to the squirrels. They’re the closest living things to the ground that I’ve noticed today. There was all kinds of trash in the gutter up on Wilson Boulevard, but the squirrel play got the living award. Furthest from the ground has been the planes taking off from National and flying to the path the arrival usually take. The cloud cover’s high but thick in the warm weather, and all the routes seem off. Those departures have this steep rise away from the river, making a racket under the clouds, and the arrivals are nowhere to be seen. There’s some invisible rumbling every so often that makes me think … who knows. Some plane outside the view.
There’s a shamrock plant on my dresser, and I just noticed all the little white flowers are leaning toward the window, where the sun was last before it went over the building and got cloudier. The reaction’s kinda impressive. Photosyn-th-chloro-what, but the plant only got around lunchtime, when my parents crossed the river to visit. I’ve never been much for taking care of nature, but my mom explained how taking care of it was simple. It would tell me when it needed water, she said. The leaves would start drooping and looking like they could use a drink of something. That, that was simple enough.