the day was well lived

I hosted a neighborhood political gathering today. Somewhat unusual for me.

The event at the house was what it was meant to be. It is what it was not meant to be, by any deliberate sense, which made the day interesting. As we all know, that is how it always goes.

I had met Paul at last week's neighborhood meeting and he told me of his plan to bicycle the city with his video camera during the Saturday/March 31 “parallel meetings/online webcast” event and document the experiences to be found therein. I thought that was a capital idea and we agreed that my house (even though his route schedule would bring him there well before any guests were due to arrive) would be one of his primary touch-bases.

I was cutting some cheese to put out as party food when the videographers (Paul and two ‘crew’ – yes on bikes but with nice video equipment) showed up. They asked me some questions (over the protestations of my small terrier baby-barred away in the office room) when the interview turned to the subject of the immediate neighborhood. I commented on how over the previous three years that I had lived in Clinton Hill with my husband the three-block radius around our building had experienced a qualitative change that, in my opinion, was beneficial to both long-term and prospective residents.

As I was saying these precise words while standing behind the counter of my kitchen a mailman shows up and hands me a package. The outer door as well as the inner door to my apartment at the end of the street-level hallway had been left open in order to welcome people to the event; please appreciate this as a scene out of Sesame Street by way of Fellini – I am slicing cheese while being interviewed by a bike-motived video film crew when Mr. Mailman walks in and hands me a package to be signed for.

“See? This is what I’m talking about; this neighborhood is great. The mailman walks right into your living room and hands you your mail.” was said right into the camera.

I sign the slip, thank Mr. Mailman who, wordlessly (and, I can only assume, brainpretzleldy, exits stage right).

“What’s this..?” I ask aloud and also to myself as I slice the large brown paper envelope with the same knife with which I was just slicing a wedge of white cheese. The camera is still watching as I do this; I actually have no idea what the package contains but I’m not about to interrupt the “realness” of the moment. It really could be anything; in spite of the Internet shoving itself down my throat personally and professionally I still experience almost bi-daily deliveries of content on physical media. So, really, it could be anything.

“My elephant-dung notebooks are here!”

I raise one to face height and flip it around so the camera may capture the actuality of my statement.

The rest of the day was just bonus.