“Poor Impulse Control”
Cold rain and clouds yesterday morning, which lead to a foul up with schedules and phone lines — no office work, as everyone was running late, missing in action or just plain unavailable. Trying to coordinate six different schedules is not my idea of fun — not really a task I’m cut out for, either. “Working freelance is a lot like dating, only there’s a usually a better return.” [Third Gemini from the left.] Which got to me thinking about a topic I’ve heard too much about, “He told me he had feelings for me” [not gender specific, using generic terms here]. To a standard female mindset, I guess the expression translates as, “He harbors great passion and love in his heart.” Right idea, wrong choice of words. Near as I can tell, when I “have feelings for you,” it really means, “I have a sense of profound attraction to you because of your [pick one or more visual clues.]” I started on this train of thought a couple of days ago, because I was talking with a client, and I was profoundly attracted to her. Love? Not even, other than the universal, brotherly love I feel for many clients. Lust? Not really, just an attraction. [The Neighbor defines such attractions in a simplistic way, “Hey, she’s breathing, she walks upright.”] If I were less of a person, I could use the easy way out and suggest that, “I have feelings for you.” To be honest though, just what are those feelings? Agape? Eros? More base? How about just calling that feeling what it really is, call it an attraction? Working with the words themselves would straighten out a lot of messes. Wait, then I’d be out of a job.
I read the Ft. Worth Star-Telegram online because it’s refreshingly unapologetic in its editorial stance. Small town, colloquial, and yet, universal, all at the same time. The bit about Mrs. Baird’s closing its old Dallas location, it brings a certain sadness. I grew up in the shadow of that plant. When the wind was right and the windows were open, like now, I could smell the bakery. I think it was a church group, or Boy Scouts, or field trip, or something, and I got to tour the bakery several times. Fresh bread, almost as good as home made. The other Dallas icon, which has already fallen, is the old Dr. Pepper plant, not the original, in Waco, but the wonderful art deco one in Dallas. My first trip to jail was started in front of it — there’s a certain sentiment attached to that. Bear in mind, that afternoon I went to jail, I was wearing a purple Hawaiian Shirt, similar floral [clashing] print shorts, and I had people hanging out the windows of passing cars, hollering at me, “Hey Kramer!” Funny, now. The guy who bailed me out an hour later — his girlfriend’s kid had just painted his nails. Little bits of personal history that are funny — now. 20 years ago, it was — it was funny then, too. No way to save landmark buildings that aren’t quite landmarks.
I had high tea, which was really low coffee, after a working lunch at El Sol y La Luna, next door at Jo’s. Sitting in the sun, watching the characters stroll by, the odd rock band hanging out, the owner’s dog begging for a scrap from a customer, tonight’s show on the marquee at the Continental Club, thinking about a horoscope I was going to write. I wandered down the avenue, full of coffee and barbacoa, looking for a Guyaba shirt. One of the stores on Congress Avenue has a rack of just such shirts. I searched through the good, used clothing to find the most right one, with a “Hecho en Mexico” tag. Then I made a comment, intended in jest, about being “culturally pure” in my clothing choice. I think it was misunderstood, but I didn’t dare make the situation any more uncomfortable. In my mind, “culturally pure” in Texas is misleading. Means there are elements from at least a half dozen cultures. Obviously, there’s Native American, then Native Central American, and Mexican, and German, French, Cajun, Louisiana, New Mexico, and more recently, a lot of Asian influence that is justifiably Texan, too. Don’t neglect our Southern Baptists, either, as a valid part of the local heritage. I can’t even begin to think about it all, like 40% of the real cowboys, at the height of the trail drives, were African American. Sort of blows images projected by media. Culturally pure clothing, like, making sure the shirt is made with ‘algodon y poliester’ instead of something else.
Closed the night out listening to strains of Low Rider being covered by some band out in the Austin night. “Take a little trip with me.” Like the sweet smell of spring, a fresh spray of jasmine on the night’s breeze, a little “culturally pure” music drifting on the evening’s soft air.
