crying in public
If there's one thing I've learned in my old age, it's how to be sad in public. Maybe I'm better at that than in private, or with people. It has caused awkward situations or, perhaps, too-human situations. Like in 30th St when I was content watching people and imagining their lives/sobbing on the bench, and then the people I was watching became concerned. For me it's about the anonymity, not a cry for help.
It's also about feeling, uncensored.
So today I went to a cozy nook style restaurant for breakfast (not expensive nor the cheapest place, for 5 dollars: coffee, sliced papaya, eggs au gratin on ham and tortilla, kinda of a spin on huevos rancheros). Alone. I don't always eat when I'm alone, though now that I'm shifting into that eat-to-fill-voids mode, I'm trying, not to curb my eating, but to stop eating furtively/ alone on purpose. Hence, restaurant.
There was a couple there singing, the man playing guitar. They didn't move on after 2 songs like roving musicians, which are plentiful in restaurants here, and they didn't have a tip jar, so I assume they are a regular installation at the restaurant.Judging by the woman's behavior and attire --she was singing and eating but pausing and working but wearing heels -- she was the proprietress. The dude is a supremely talented singer and snappy dresser, but harder to place, so let's imagine that they are passionately in love.
Anyway so good! They didn't just sing Besame Mucho (actually they didn't sing that) or Sabor a Tí, but other stuff I didn't know, and have subsequently forgotten. And I got the memo that I'm pretty hormonal 'cause I just started weeping quietly over my eggs.
It's also about feeling, uncensored.
So today I went to a cozy nook style restaurant for breakfast (not expensive nor the cheapest place, for 5 dollars: coffee, sliced papaya, eggs au gratin on ham and tortilla, kinda of a spin on huevos rancheros). Alone. I don't always eat when I'm alone, though now that I'm shifting into that eat-to-fill-voids mode, I'm trying, not to curb my eating, but to stop eating furtively/ alone on purpose. Hence, restaurant.
There was a couple there singing, the man playing guitar. They didn't move on after 2 songs like roving musicians, which are plentiful in restaurants here, and they didn't have a tip jar, so I assume they are a regular installation at the restaurant.Judging by the woman's behavior and attire --she was singing and eating but pausing and working but wearing heels -- she was the proprietress. The dude is a supremely talented singer and snappy dresser, but harder to place, so let's imagine that they are passionately in love.
Anyway so good! They didn't just sing Besame Mucho (actually they didn't sing that) or Sabor a Tí, but other stuff I didn't know, and have subsequently forgotten. And I got the memo that I'm pretty hormonal 'cause I just started weeping quietly over my eggs.