Gertrude Stein, in her book, “The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas,” writes, “I like a view but I like to sit with my back turned to it.”

I’ve just begun the book. I’m going to love it, but she does seem to be impressed with her own art collection, which diminishes my own interest in it a little. I’ve read about her Paris apartment at 27 rue de Fleurus, and its art work stacked to the ceilings—Picassos, Matisses, etc. Part of its aura, its legend, relates to the privacy of the collector, and to the sense that Stein was collecting out of a private, almost unconscious understanding of the value of the art in the first decade of the new century, at a time when others didn’t see its beauty. It lends her own appreciation a greater credibility, knowing that she collected not because the artists were important or to be valued, but because she liked them. So if later the public catches up with her tastes, I’m happy that she was also eventually rewarded with a collection impressive in value as well. But to speak of it in almost boastful terms later lessens my impression of her. Maybe I just need to give her some slack so early on in the book. I did just run across one seemingly anti-Semitic remark in the first few pages, which jarred me a little. I hope she’s a likable person, but already I have reason to worry.

I was just reading a profile of some kid in a chat room. In an otherwise fine profile he writes something like, “Don’t hold it against me that I went to XYZ University.” He’s clearly impressed with himself that he went to this university. If he’d just left that out, I’d have a much higher opinion of him. I try to be careful myself not to make such telling remarks.

A few weeks ago I took a week off of work to work on my rental house. It was a nice week. The entire effort has drawn me in, and I’m obsessed with it now. Maybe it has something to do with making something nice out of something so dilapidated, or about having a nice space of my own. I don’t know. But I’m enjoying it. Anyway, after a long day of digging holes for a fence, carrying bags of gravel and cement, and preparing the posts, a neighbor stopped by to see how things were going and to give me some tips. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so I appreciated it. His advice was mostly that I should go 3 feet deep at least, maybe even 4! This after I’d just finished 8 hours of digging. Of course he was not the one digging, pounding against stones, and scratching around roots, I thought to myself. But I took note of his advice, worried about it, and made a trip to the hardware store to get a post digger. I finally decided to go with what I’d done—2 feet or a little less for most posts. Later, as I was mixing the concrete, he returned and asked if I’d dug deeper. I replied that I had given it some thought, but had decided not to. He responded in a very pleasant and non-disapproving tone, “Well, hope for the best,” and waved and walked on. The bastard.

Earlier in the same week I went to the convenience store across the street to get a lighter. I needed something to light the propane torch I was using to solder copper water supply pipes. I walked up to this young black woman behind the counter and asked if I could have a lighter or even a pack of matches. She looked at me and then asked for my ID! I’m sure I gave her a momentary look of confusion, but then I handed her my driver’s license without comment. When she saw that I was 42 years old, she could not believe it. She was serious.

When I was in Chicago last week I went for a walk during the lunch break of the conference I was attending. I started walking in a random direction for some food, and finally arrived at a busy pizza place. I ordered two pieces of pepperoni pizza, took them outside, and walked to a little park nearby. I sat down on a ledge in front of a bed of orange tulips and began eating and listening to the three construction workers talking in front of the ledge next to mine. A train (the “L”) passed by above us. A moment later a pigeon landed chest first onto the sidewalk in front of me. It then began flapping its wings lethargically and spewing blood from its mouth. One of the men said that the bird had been hit by the train. For about a minute the pigeon flopped around in front of me. One had the sense that someone should do something, but no one did. What was there to do? The bird eventually stopped moving, leaving a trail of blood that ended at its beak. It was funny to note the reactions of people when they first noticed the bird. A few were visibly disturbed. One woman averted her head and quickly moved away. Some just walked by and avoided getting blood on their business shoes. The blood did spark some talk among the men beside me, not all of which I could hear. But I did hear one guy say clearly, “I’ll wade in the red tides, but I won’t drink from them.” Whatever could he be talking about? Heheh Chicago is a nice town, a livable city.