To The Good
Monday. Took a while to get to sleep last night. I stayed up and watched the Korean historical (soap) last night as I guess I've gotten into the habit of watching it (who knows how long the damned thing might run) and got to bed around eleven. Took some time to doze off, although I'm not so sure anymore I don't slip under and then wake up briefly before going to sleep again thinking I hadn't gotten any sleep at all. What the hell. Otherwise the night was fine.
Up this morning with the alarm, to breakfast and back locked in the usual routine, home now at eight, an appointment with the neurologist coming up at ten-thirty, a good hour and a half's drive down to wherever in the hell it is.
Yesterday was a long successful day, all in all, the trip to the Cherry Blossom Festival, the pictures and the then session needed to put two pages together for artandlife taking something like five hours. Still, didn't seem like work, seemed more like play, quite a bit of satisfaction when the task was complete. Not all of them worked out as I might have liked, but part of the delight of the process is in what you think you've learned. I say “think” in that who knows what the lessons really might be. They either work for you or against you, both seem to count.
You're drifting into the opaque here, as opaque to you as it is to everyone else.
Ego untrammeled by reality. It's the rage of the age at the moment. Just read the news.
Later. A fifty mile drive to Mountain View and a fifty mile drive back. An hour though, not the hour and a half I'd earlier thought. Which is good because when I'd set out I realized I'd inadvertently left myself but an hour for the drive. Crossed signals, rattled on the road, got there with minutes to spare. He, of course, was running a half hour late.
We went over the various tests and such we've run since I'd seen him last. He admitted mine was a case he'd not seen before - not clear that's good to hear - and he wasn't really sure what was going on other than it didn't seem to be any of the usual suspects. Another blood test for something relatively rare, the possibility of a backbone MRI of come kind, depending on how his conversation goes with the fellow who ran the original MRI on the brain. Something about a darkening on the edge of the lead vertebrae where the backbone starts.
Not something I'd look forward to, but we're here on the bus for this particular ride, a ride at this particular moment with or without an obvious destination. Otherwise we'll keep on truckin’. Right?
Lunch tomorrow with Ms. R and Mr. L. Haven't seen Mr. L in forever, Ms. R in too long, looking forward to seeing them both. Lunch Wednesday after my guitar lesson with Ms. P, haven't seen her in too long too. Catching up this week. Good. We'll be well into a good week.
Later still. A day now clear of commitments. I took a walk down to the local 7-11 look alike to buy an ice cream cone, a package of unsalted cashews and a 100ml bottle of Jack Daniels; the ice cream cone and cashews substituting for lunch, the Jack Daniels for later this evening when the mood strikes. I'm not sure any of them get a vote in the optimal diet awards.
The ice cream was good, the ice cream is always good, the cashews tasteless. I never know anymore if it's the food or the palate, now that my taste buds are shot and my stomach sends me messages to avoid most everything I once ate with any relish. Of course most everything I once ate is on the avoid at all costs list, so we're not complaining. Overly much.
The whiskey? Well, if it stays (in this case) to three drinks, we're OK with that. Two is the limit, but the smallest bottle is three and I don't want to pick up a bottle any larger lest I give in to late night debauchery. We know our limits, no reason to make it difficult for me to keep although there's a certain attraction to debauchery at the age of sixty-eight. And what the hell, it's been a long clean living weekend with much getting done, I'm ready to relax and imbibe. I think. We're not quite to the evening yet, still have more chances to rationalize.
Perhaps an hour an a half so far on the guitar, another hour I suspect before the day is done. That's good. I'd gotten in thirty minutes of practice on Sunday after a long day, basically a thirty to maybe forty-five minute repetition of scales. Can't hurt. Throw in a chord or two for diversity, but basically scales. Up and down. I find them soothing. Which, you must admit, if you're thinking of learning to play, is to the good.