This week has been spent alone, not counting going to work and a music rehearsal. By which I mean, my partner, Robert, has been off to the coast pursuing his livelihood and I have been left in the house by myself. This happens so rarely, that I am both euphoric and at loose ends. Euphoria has been expressed through the unrestrained oddity of my diet. Finally, I get to eat anything I want. Which means I simply scrounge for whatever is there, no matter how various. Tonight, I made pudding with half, half-and-half, and half, rice milk. It was weird but I couldn't tell if it was the rice milk or the fact that I burned the bottom of the pan. Of course, I ate some anyway. My food goal is to prove that I can eat happily on whatever the cupboard and fridge provide. Like most Americans, we tend to stockpile food., even though we are always going to the grocery store. The other part of dinner was polenta, to use up the carton of chicken stock I opened for my quinoa vegetable stew two nights before, that included every vegetable in the fridge except the lettuce. I call it practicing for poverty.
If I get nothing else out of my career of taking care of the legal problems of the poor, at least I have a clue how to survive on the bottom rungs of society, should I ever fall down the pinnacle of success I have managed to achieve. I also know not to fear such a fall from grace, as I have learned that only addiction or mental illness or illegality of status could send you to the streets. Despite the tales of woe that are touted as proof of our terrible economy, our country is not yet at the point of letting people starve or freeze to death. I say this only to remember that our version of misfortune is quite a bit better than many parts of the world.
The one thing that marks my poor clients as different from my friends and acquaintances, is the raw emotion they readily express. Although I thrill to the slogan of the "Occupy" movement that "We are the 99%," there is a big difference between the bottom 10% and the 90th percentile. The thing about this country is that we have a good idea of how the rich live, and we are damn mad we don't have some of that. The poorer you are, the madder and sadder you are about it. So I hear a lot of emotions and I like that part of my job. This may be a twisted appreciation, but I admire those who are in touch with and express their feelings. It is so straightforward. But I'm also glad that I don't have all those strong feelings myself, at least not over the same things.
Spending the week alone has also led to more talking to myself, which then finally, has led to this little bit of writing, which is all good. But I'm ready for company
