Closed for repairs.

Body

You might think this too: I feel kind of shameful and sad when I think about why other people commit suicide and conversely I'm pretty happy and don't want to.  Either A) I feel like I can't show that I'm happy, because other people will want to ask me about it, and that's messed up and I should ask a psychologist; or B) I secretly think that people who get some kind of peace or benefit to killing themselves know something more about suicide than I do, which is also kind of messed up.

I'm not trying to say I think about suicide.  If you read this, don't think I do.  Suicide is so hard to talk about, it's something people have been doing throughout history yet every society wants to put its frame around it and you're not supposed to take the frame off.

late

I own a small car. I bought it in March of 2009 because it fulfilled two purposes: 1. I had gotten to be a big kid, with a big kid job; and 2. I wanted a hatchback to carry band equipment around.

Some nights when I drive back to South Philly, I have to park creatively.  Most of the time, I can fit my car into tight spots, as I’ve gotten pretty good at parallel parking.  But sometimes I have to sneak up to the corner behind a car that’s parked already pretty close.  What I mean to say is that the butt end of my car might hang off a few inches from the corner curb.  Usually, this works out okay, because the few cops who come around at night are willing, I guess, to let my parking job pass unticketed.

 But I never look forward to this kind of risky parking.  In this context, Driver Sandro is happiest when I come home from work at around 5, because there will always be a space available.  At the times that I drive home at 11 or so, especially on a week night, I know that I’ll always roll up on Tasker with the anxiety of speculation.  Will there be a random spot on my block, maybe because a visitor just left, or because the other cars looking to park have been bigger than a subcompact?

When I do find that open spot and lock up my car, the first thing I do is try to mnemonically voice the intersection so I remember where I am the next morning.  I’ve been doing this for years.  West Chester, Boston, Philadelphia.  I don’t know where next.

The best memories I have of the places in which I’ve lived are the ones that mix a little bit of hatred with a little bit more of success.  Often, it’s not what I go out to do, but how I park my car and walk home.