Appreciable Hurdles

Vincent got really pissed when people gave him cameras as gifts...

I have "Starry Night" stuck in my head right now, so I give you a classic painting, "The Cafe."
I woke up about 6 this morning. They (the city mainainence workers who make pretty good money, have all kinds of benefits and whom you never see covered in their own sweat) were already cranking up the lawn mowers and the weed whackers, at the front end of the graveyard.
I hurredly stashed my sleeping bag in a patch of leafy plants the same color as the bag, and then I bagged up all the trash that I could find, and left, to go get my hard boiled egg.
Getting my laundry done is still at the top of my list of things to do.
I went to Save-A-Lot and purchsed two large plastic bags for 22 cents. I then went to the graveyard and stuffed them full of clothing of mine that I could find.
I then removed it from the graveyard and placed it in another spot, which should be a safe place for it; at least until the sun goes down, when the likes of Richard and Thomas come out.
Today, I might try to go to the music store. I want to ask them about technology which is currently available to facilitate the recording of music and the posting of same recordings onto the world wide web.
I still want a huge backpack, and a copy of my Alabama State ID, but will have to wait on the ID, and am being patient in the acquisition of the backpack. Jeff, the Potter had said once that students abandon backpacks at the school where he teaches, and that he might be able to get me one. I would hate to spend 90 bucks on something that I might have gotten free by excersising patience. I want to be able to carry everything that I own on my back, and to thus safeguard it and allow myself to be mobile, in case I want to leave Mobile to partake of the bonanza which is New Orleans, or of any other happening spot, within reach of one with a hugh backpack and a guitar on his back.
That is the order of the day; to clean and dry all my clothes and then neatly fold them and place them in a warm, dry safe place.
Pants Of Death
I am working on a story about a pair of pants at the Wings Of Life rescue mission thrift store that have paranormal powers, so that whoever purchases them for 5 dollars and dons them, falls under some kind of spell and begings murdering and raping (and posessing child pornography) all around Mobile, Alabama. The people all have no criminal histories and are model citizens when not wearing the toupe colored Dickies that they got at the thrift store at Wings Of Life.
That is the premise of the story. Wait until you read about why the cashier at the thrift store always grins maniacly after the pants are re-donated, and after yet someone else, buys them for 5 dollars.
I could go and eat at Wings Of Life rescue mission right now. All I would have to do is sit through a 45 minute church service, where someone on a microphone would talk about how they used to have to go to Wings Of Life and sit through a church service, just to eat, but now they have been saved and delivered from all of that, because they prayed to Jesus, and the very next day a check came in the mail for $118 thousand dollars, and they got a car and a house, not just a cheap car, either, and now they don't have to eat at Wings Of Life, though they are offered plates in return for preaching.

"Settle down, everyone, I'm almost through...you'll get to eat in a minute..."

I am using this writing session as a way of dissociating and keeping my mind off of the daunting task of doing laundry.
I've got the soap and the clothes bagged up. I could wash it myself in a bucket and hang it all night in front of the hot air that blasts out of the Church of Christ air conditioning units. I have wondered why the air conditioner seems to run night and day there. I have concluded that it has to do with the issue of humidity. They probably have priceless spiritual works of art in there, like paintings, which would be depreciated more by a humid atmosphere than the cost of 10 identical air conditioning units.
They are extremely wealthy in that church, so much so that they are very suspicious of outsiders even coming near their sanctuary.
They are the ones that put down straw on the ground where us homeless sleep, around last Christmas. We were sleeping like Jesus in the manger that week.
Wall Rises To 8 Feet
I might move back to that spot, because the wall at the graveyard is a full 8 feet high now, with bricks being added even as I type. It took me a couple of leaps to pull myself up and catch and perch myself at the top of the wall, balancing my body weight, so as to swing myself over the wall last night. And, as usual the silly riddle was in my head, as I went over:
Q: Why are there walls around cemetaries?
A: Because people are dying to get in.
I hadn't expected to see any of the less athletic homeless guys sleeping in there, and I didn't. They had to walk on down Government Street, past the Hardee's, which is intrinsicly tied to this particular problem of theirs, and sleep at the Christ Church, or somewhere else which has no appreciable hurdle in front of it.
I don't think I will, because I have a huge responsibility to supply my body with exactly what it needs to endure as a temple of the Holy Spirit, and that specialised knowledge has been hard learned, and shouldn't be wasted.