(Illustration of Ulf Buschmann‘s ‘Laundromat‘ found here).
Again another Sunday,
Now this morning bright sunshine and warm — storms
Oh, for sure back at the laundromat,
Weekly visits to thee I sing,
Just spring-load the quarters, flutters
My brain in the
To wash my blues away.
A poetic blurb from doing my laundry earlier today. Just a random sample of some written ramblings jotted down while waiting for my clothes to finish — sitting in my truck near-about alternating between reading David Baldacci’s ‘First Family,’ and scribbling notes on little literary intuitions — like how photographs of those two Boston bombing brothers (I do sometimes fancy a great deal of alliteration) could be juxtaposed/reflected through the movie, “Blow Up,” with murder in the park so surreal and horrific via images developed now in quick time.
Or scabbing together a poem.
Or just staring at the sky, watching the occasional little white whiffs of cloud up high puffing energetically across a clear blue — or words to that effect.
My visits to laundromats have always fascinated — readÂ here my former oblong-observation of washing your clothes in public and how time runs in cycles.
NowÂ Sunday evening, the sunset bright from the west, and this a tiny post on a solitary day tripper. Along with doing laundry, I’ve started a epic, apartment-cleaning operation this weekend — first, a highly-junked-pack closet yesterday, and parts of the kitchen today, but I’ve settled into the long haul as this could take awhile.
And in just a way-too-few hours will be Monday — once again.
What kind of weird shit lies just ahead?