Public Places

It’s interesting to write, here at a laundromat, while I do my laundry.

The hum of the washers and the driers, different people and the things they do while waiting for their clothes to be washed or dried.  It feels like I’m far removed from the real world waiting for a ticket out.

This laundromat is in Dexter.  It wasn’t easy to find.  It’s a place to wash your clothes and wash your car. (Ingenious!)  I usually go to one in Ann Arbor that has WiFi with tables and booths.  This one has two chairs, no table and two, small, yellow tables for folding clothes, encircled with racks for hanging clothes. I decided I could use the folding table to write even if it is about ten inches higher than a normal desk.

There’s only one other person in here with me.  She’s all dressed in black with a gray and black knitted cap on.  She’s using the other chair and reading a book.  (I wasn’t able to inconspicuously see what the title was)

A man just came in with a green cap, blue jeans and a blue jacket.  He knows her.  He even asks her if she needs help folding her blankets.  I thought it was her husband, at first, but he seems to be on his own.   She kindly informed him how much more time he has on his machine before his laundry is done. 

He said to me, “I have trouble lifting the clothes on the hangers.  I have a bad rotor-cuff and I can only lift a few at a time.”

I asked him, “Did you have surgery on it?”

“No, it wasn’t bad enough to have surgery and of course I didn’t do the exercises like I was suppose to…”

“Most people don’t, it’s painful.”  (I wanted to add "beneficial", but held my tongue)

“Yah, it is,”  he said.

Nobody has their jacket off.  It’s too damn cold in here.  Good thing the woman is folding her clothes because with only two chairs and three people, somebody would be standing. 

Now he’s talking to the her about why he goes to the laundromat.  He says he bought a place in the woods and he doesn’t like to put the phosphates from the detergent in the drain field.  He also was telling her he had to ask some of his tenants how to do laundry.  “I didn’t know how to do it before.  I probably still don’t do it well.  I put it all in one load.”  (Hmmm, I wonder if he listened to the advice)

He told her about his brother and wife who has a Filino maid.  She responded by relaying a story about a friend who lives in Mexico and they have a cheap maid.  He proceeds to give more details on his brother’s maid.  “When she gets up at 7:30 in the morning she’s sweeping the floors! Hahaha,” he laughs.  “It’s really nice because she has a small apartment in their basement and she does really well.”  I quit listening after hearing what a good life his brother’s maid has, living with them.   

I like the stimulus of going to public places.  I can observe people I would never see on a regular basis.  The facilities are not always as comfortable or pretty, but maybe that’s what makes it public.  Like a train station, or a library.

Ann Arbor has completed a new branch library called Westgate.  I’ve heard rants about how beautiful it is but I hesitate to go and see it.  I love the public library downtown.  

Even if frequently they have two guard-like guys standing at the entrance.  Even if I do see an ambulance, once in a while, outside in the parking lot, loading up someone who has overdosed or who is ill.  Even if it is a designated place for the homeless to get warm in the winter and cool in the summer.  I like to be able to walk to the library, too.  It makes it feel more like a community library.   

It’s healthy for me to mingle with the people who live in my community. Young and old. It keeps me alert. I’ve spent most of my life isolating myself from the human race because of my fears, my ignorance and my prejudices.  I continue to get better at taking time to observe and dissipate my fears.  It has helped me develop more compassion for others.  The bonus is it’s already helped me not to judge myself as much.  And life seems more interesting.

The Ghost of Security   M.M.

Death of my loved one brought me painful realizations.

Like a blast from an arctic chill, hitting my heart and brain.

“There is no promise of happiness.”

Being awake for possible treasures in this life

dispels my fear to die and answers my questions about why to live.

Like a museum painting on wall.

I stand too close and the colors are muffled and lose their definition. 

I look from too far away, the walls and corridors hide its essence.

The truth leaked in.

It bombarded me with pain.

A mindless path dictated by fear is no longer an option.

I do not believe in the ghost of security.

What made me think I could wind and wrap 

and wind and tighten the duck tape around myself and be safe?  

There is no safety in life.  

Death is the looking glass.

It sees through the hours and days and sets them on fire.

This finite state we are in, is the only guarantee.