Fall Festival

Last Rites and Small Rebellions

The morning began with ritual and rebellion—my final pilgrimage to the condemned Starbucks. The atmosphere was thick with the particular melancholy that accompanies institutional death. Unhappy customers shared theories about corporate stupidity: apparently they're opening a new location somewhere completely useless to the actual community that built their business here. The disconnect between boardroom decisions and neighborhood reality couldn't have been more stark. I found myself hoping their replacement venture fails spectacularly—a small, petty wish that felt absolutely justified.

The Minecraft server provided a more satisfying resolution to yesterday's technical frustrations. Sometimes the best fix is the most radical one: complete reinstallation, clearing away digital debris, starting fresh. The server hummed back to life with the particular satisfaction that comes from solving problems through decisive action rather than incremental tinkering.

Trip photos beckoned for organization—those thousands of industrial heritage images still waiting to be properly catalogued and contextualized. But the Fall Festival called, promising community celebration and the simple pleasure of public spaces filled with neighbors.

The bus ride downtown felt like participating in civic life rather than just consuming it. Public transportation as small act of faith in shared infrastructure, in the idea that we're all going somewhere together.

The festival's food situation proved disappointing—long lines leading to uninspiring options. Sometimes events promise more than they can deliver. Squirrels provided refuge with familiar faces and the comfortable rhythm of Friday's same servers. Slow service became meditative rather than frustrating when you're not rushing toward anything in particular.

Back at the festival, I became an anthropologist of local creativity, but also discovered the particular joy of unexpected recognition. Three separate encounters with familiar faces emerged from the crowd throughout my wandering—each blossoming into brief conversations that transform a public event from mere observation into genuine community participation. Each recognition brought its own micro-joy: the pause, the shared smile, the few minutes of catching up that create those small threads of connection. It's the difference between being a tourist in your own town and being a participant in its ongoing story, multiplied by each friendly exchange that punctuated my wandering through the festival crowd.

Booth after booth of arts and crafts represented hours of someone's passionate labor. The eternal mystery of aesthetic preference played out in real time—what speaks to one person leaves another cold. The photography booths showcased technically competent landscapes, the kind of safe beauty designed to complement furniture rather than challenge perception. Pleasant but predictable.

The flavored olive oils provided the day's most sensual surprise—taste as direct route to appreciation, bypassing the complex negotiations of visual art. Almost bought some, caught between impulse and practicality.

The return bus ride marked the transition from public engagement to private creation. Minecraft welcomed me back with its promise of total control, of worlds that bend perfectly to vision and effort. The warehouse project began to take shape—massive, ambitious, requiring the kind of sustained attention that physical construction demands but digital construction makes infinitely more forgiving. Half a day's work yielded only the wood products section of the Builder's Zone, a reminder that even in fantasy, meaningful creation takes time.

The evening dissolved into deliberate mindlessness—White Russian and Hogan's Heroes, that reliable combination of mild intoxication and familiar comedy. Sometimes the best days are the ones that don't demand profound meaning, that simply accumulate small pleasures and modest accomplishments. 10,828 steps logged, proving that even seemingly lazy days involve more movement than you'd expect.

Tomorrow's cancelled photo shoot hangs in the background like a small disappointment. The model's disappearance reinforces what I already knew: professionals understand commitment in ways that amateurs often don't. Their reliability becomes more valuable than their talent. The open day ahead promises house projects instead—probably more satisfying than dealing with flaky collaboration anyway.

Some days teach you about endings and beginnings, about community and solitude, about the difference between mindful engagement and mindless relaxation. Today delivered all of these lessons wrapped in the gentle chaos of small-town celebration and digital creation. Not every day needs to change the world; some days just need to remind you that you're still part of it.

Flower from today's wandering