If agnostic means passively not giving a shit, I’ve found my verb (unless it’s my adjective or maybe my noun)
These are a few of my indifferent things: daylight savings, tofu, horoscopes, George Clooney, commas, cacti, and changing seasons – mostly anyway
Usually when fall comes around I’m ready and then some. I’m dying to squirrel into a sweater and pull my jeans on, and I can happily watch people rake leaves for hours.
It’s a bittersweet pleasure giving up the perpetual obligations of the beach, isn’t it?
And by the time the last hostas bloom all spindly and purple, I’m muttering things like is that all you got? I’m tired of barbequed anything, fed up to here with basil and julips, thinking about Brussel sprouts, soups and stews, roasted anything, and bitter about the strawberries which look gorgeous but are without fragrance or sweetness.
My usual resignation of summer starts with a glass of red, a scarf loose over my tanned shoulders, and me saying something witty and wistful like bring it on motherfuckers
But not this time. And it’s all because of tennis which for me, for now, is a solitary sport, and calling it a sport is stretching it I know because all I do is wack the ball against a wall every night until the sun sets and sometimes later. And it’s not just any wall. It’s a wall with walls if you will or even if you won’t, so it’s like three walls and they are very high. So tennis is new to and I don’t know what the standards are or how to determine success in this endeavour, but let’s just say I fucking kill it at wall tennis, okay?
And I’m not saying where this place is because although I’d love to see you, I really would, there are already people there sometimes and I have to just glide by on my bike and pretend I had no tennising intentions and use all my powers to invisibilitize the racquet that’s hanging off the back of my bike like a tongue.
I just looked up tennis elbow and I don’t have it (although I used to suffer from something similar due to rapid beverages). But looks like I do have cubital tunnel syndrome and olecranon bursitis plus I am quite thirsty and linty from all the flannel
You know how when you’re walking along a trail and the leaves are crunchy and there’s maybe some wind going on and maybe you’re humming a tune like all the leaves are brown the leaves are brown and the sky is grey and the sky is grey-eyy in your head or outside of it and then all of a sudden a bike swoops by and sort of pulls your heart out of its socket for a minute and you think holyfuckingshit good thing I am sober because you’d be a goner if you veered.
I totally get why people who don’t ring their bell don’t ring their bell
They are the modest ones. They don’t like to call attention to themselves and have probably never hailed a cab in their lives and they likely drink too much and tip way to the other side and I should know. They consider bell-ringing squeaky-wheeling and I should know this, too, because although you probably think I’m all show-offy because I sometimes am, when I’m riding my bike down a leafy trail the last thing I want to do is shatter the peace so here’s what I did, and you might remember doing this when you were a kid but then it was just because it was fun being loud.
This is more for keeping your heart nicely in your chest, and everybody else’s in theirs, too
I put a playing card in my spokes – it’s a joker and he’s riding a bike – also yellow. Using one of those bull clips or whatever they’re called, I fixed it so just the tip of the card gets the action and the resulting sound is a pleasant little whirr, just enough to warn people that I’m coming.
