In one of my classes I read selections from Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journals. I remember being both bored and amazed by her lifestyle: gardening, letter writing, poem transcribing, letter writing, walking, eating, letter writing. That's about it. What a strange daily life. There was such a sturdy difference between that world and mine, I thought.

Today I feel differently. I have no job. It is raining. The cable is broken. Today I woke up, put on a clean shirt, read, stared off, checked my email, read, made a phone call, read, stared off, checked my email, and now I'm blogging. I think I might take a walk later, perhaps after reading, staring off, and checking my email. It isn't even noon yet, and I am not even Dorothy Wordsworth. I don't have a garden. That may be the problem.

Or perhaps this morning just seems slow because yesterday was so fun. I went to a free concert day in Brooklyn. During the summer they hold these "beach party" festivals in a gigantic abandoned pool.

I got there very early (2PM) and waited in a very long line for a very long time. Inside the promoters had set up a waterslide, a water volleyball net, and a dodgeball court. Stands along the perimeter sold overpriced hotdogs, hamburgers, beer, and water. The opening band really didn't catch my eye or my ear, but the second act I'm from Barcelona was really fun. It reminded me of the fun Athens collective bands I am now missing. They even threw beach balls into the audience:

When I figured out how to use zoom, I could actually get a shot of the band. Here is my favorite out of the group:

I was lucky enough to run into some CPC kids there and finally had some company among the huge crowd. After a long break, Blonde Redhead finally came on stage and really gave a good show. I haven't bought the new album yet, but I think it will be my next CD purchase. This was a good idea to go. I had been trapped in my apartment living my Dorothy Wordsworth life for two days before Sunday, and I was ready to get out.

One final note:
I'm sure everyone is relieved to hear that the hipster clap is still well and alive in Brooklyn, along with skull-fitting, angular haircuts and $100 shirts that look like they came out of the dumpster. Great people watching, though. All the cool kids from Brooklyn and Manhattan seemed to be there, and as the beginning snare and whistle of Peter, Bjorn, and John's "Young Folks" spread from the concert PAs, I could hear faint, fanboy screams reverberate across the peeling pool floor: