Chopped salad
In my stay-in mode Tuesday night, G decided to make us both chopped salads and bring them over to the LaLa to sit and eat on the bayou. BUT the porch had just been painted so it was more like sit in the screen porch in back with the hurricane lamps and eat and then walk out to the bayou and sit in the chairs that my neighbor has out there with our glasses of wine.
G was in the dumps due to a ruling on a client from her criminal attorney past. Sometimes “they” make decisions that are so stupid and there is nothing “we” can do about it. Even knowing she did the best job she or anyone else could have done doesn’t give her solace.
Staring at the water, a glass of wine in hand, we both were silent from the thoughts in our head – her’s a death row client – mine an amalgamam of disparate dark thoughts – one being the link S sent me to NOAA showing how this was going to be an exceptionally bad hurricane year – another my friend’s daughter’s MRI – and still another my mother’s precarious existence.
How did the 90’s excess give way to such much woe in the 00’s? It’s like the world seemed to be stretching out towards the land of milk and honey and suddenly a new decade brought us instead to chopped salad – all our tangibles and connections abruptly amputated and mutated and resituated in a fresh new way that defies identification.