Haven

"...anything that has light does not belong to me."

-- Jose Saramago, Blindness

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The Cinci libraries are becoming my refugee camps, and like a native displaced, I roam for comfort and provisions to get me through the boredom occupation. Not that the place isn't hopping--it's just that I'm not. I'm okay with that, really, as long as there's a clean, well-lighted place I can go and chill and get books and movies for free. A library is a college without classes, a bookstore without prices, a coffeeshop without caffeine. No offense, Blockbuster and Borders, but the casa de libros saves me and my funds. La casa es mi casa, or something like that.

What I mean to say is, I got myself a card at the Main Branch (a classy joint), smeared signature on the back strip and all, and I may or may not have just checked out five DVDs.

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Late-night snacked at Skyline last night with Sara before she left for Chi-Town, and the upcoming weekends are filling up: Saturday forays are in the works, escapades to Dayton, Columbus, and Lexington, a kind of friendly Bermuda Triangle. Knowing cities is like knowing friends or knowing books on your shelf. Or, you know, local library branches.

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Shot north from Kentucky after rehearsal last night and found myself at the dumbass end of a major delay. Some poor wretches had flipped cars into each other about a mile up the road, just past a series of dangerous entrance ramps (I-75 travelers, take note, said the hovering traffic copter man). While I waited to back out and exit via the entrance, I called about twelve people I hadn't talked to in forever. Good choices can be made in idleness.