I’m on a city street at the curb. I seem to be sitting on a skateboard pushing myself around with my hands. Mel is sitting in the gutter at the curb doing some sort of craft. The curb is red. I’m thinking about a bookcase and there are a number of old books that I’d like to read but I wonder if I’ll truly get around to reading them or whether I should just get rid of them. Mel and I casually talking about it and other subjects that come to mind. I move over to a driveway that leads into a chain link fence as whatever building in this area is long gone and there’s nothing but a vacant lot. There’s a car parked nearby. I’ve found a sort of groove by rocking up the driveway and then sliding back down, then up the slope of the street and back down, aided by simple push-offs with my arms and hands. I’m rocking back and forth. A car drives up and wants to park when it sees us in the place where it wants to park, and then moves on. We’re looking at an area where a guy walks up and starts playing blues harp. He’s pretty good. I notice that his feet look like monkey’s feet. I tell Mel to notice them. He shrugs. The guy finishes and walks away. Another guy comes up and starts playing blues harp. He’s wearing an apron and when he finishes, I noticed that there’s a table there and he’s actually waiting on it as it’s a restaurant. He comments that this is his last table there ever. It seems this is a famous spot for people to come and play blues harp but that was long ago and they’re paying homage too it as it’s now closing down.
The aching in my arms seems to be some sort of exercise. There’s concern about the books, like wishes that haven’t come true. There’s the harp playing that’s nostalgic from my years playing open mikes and trying to get my music off the ground. These are familiar to me.
