Six miles!

Today I walked my six miles, and damn it felt good. As a result, today had such balance. The day itself; the environs, how it grabbed my hand and led me into a jolly skip (hahaha!); the sun intensifying beautifully over the course of its westward descent.

About 11:30, I headed out the door to work. I decided that I'd do something I'd never previously done sober. Tread west on Swiss Ave. A little backstory: I have several friends who live scattered about over a few blocks on the historic street. So usually I'm drunk or en route to getting drunk. So, I suppose the question now is, "Patrick, in the past, had you walked Swiss Ave. for the express purposes of meeting up with friends to get drunk, and if so, while you were walking, did you contemplate the scenery or were you strictly focused on getting drunk and all the varied possibilities that result from being in such a state?" The answers are, "yes, no, yes and yes."

I am a cheeky bastard.

I hit Swiss in a full stride with an unlit cigarette between my lips. Passing me in my saunter was a couple walking a dog who nodded and said "hi" with all the elation of actors in a Hal Hartley flick. That is to say, they delivered their generic salutation in monotonic deadpan. It tickled me. Truly, it did. The dog was a tad more friendly, but not desperate friendly. Continuing on, I passed Robert's digs and could see Downtown Dallas in the distance. I lit my cig.

When I got to the historic block with all the really nice homes that house no people, but are representative of socially viable organizations, I took a moment to read all the placards. I also discovered a very nice park. And, since I spare no grandiloquence, I will say that the park was verdant, stilly, and centered by a small wooden pavillion. The kind of place where maybe I couldn't enjoy a cigarette, but a place where I could simply sit and cogitate, or better still: read a good book. Or a bad one. Fuck it.

When I reached the dead end at Good Latimer, I knew that it was all the same old bullshit from there. But the interesting, or perhaps, distressing thing was that I was frightened of my reflection at a point. The wind had blown my hair every which way, it was horrible. Oh, the vanity!

---

I walked home from work and stopped at Exall Park. I smoked a cigarette and watched a woman and her dog play fetch in the distance. I took the time alone and began to talk silently to myself. My back was facing the street and the woman would never see my mouth moving for the distance unless she had exceptional vision, inhuman even. I went on about those stupid "meet-cutes" in romantic films and how ridiculous even the notion was. As if she'd muster the strength to throw that ball the 50ft or so (I don't know, I suck at estimation of distance) that separated us, and then chase her pup to me. Meet eyes with me and so on and so forth...

Then I looked at the trees and thought about what Paul Tillich (I know, it's funny, me-- Patrick-- pondering the words of a theologian-- but he was an existentialist) said about being alone and the distinction between loneliness and solitude. I wasn't lonely. I was solitary, and it was a beautiful thing. The girl left after letting her dog micturate upon one of the trees. I put out the cig and looked down at my shoes. Scuffed. Falling apart. I realized that I was hungry.

So I got up, followed the couple who were walking along the trail, and made easterly in the direction of Jack in the Box.

... I dig the egg rolls in the sampler trio. That's all.