Saturday. No clouds this morning: the sun bright, the air cool and crisp. A t-shirt and a light jacket, a white Panama hat, a drive rather than a walk to breakfast; the head in relatively good condition. It's Saturday. It's the weekend. What to do now that the choices are so many? Any thoughts, Mr. Prop? Any little voices skittering about the perimeter making novel suggestions? Something different, perhaps, on this weekend in this month of August?
Are we suggesting we're verging on boredom here?
No, no. We are talking about a major shifting of gears, a life changing event, a need to let the mind bubble and burp on its own, alone, in its own time and space; to allow it to formulate and communicate our next phase when it's ready. We're listening brain. We're listening. The aching head and the rest are a distraction - a real problem of a distraction, I must confess - and, I guess I'm saying I'm wondering how long it will take as I'm feeling the need to get on with it, whatever “it” may be. Which is the process of change I'm describing, I suppose, something for which you just have to wait. Did I mention how wonderful the weather is this morning? I did?
Later. A walk over to the Farmer's Market under the highway across from the Grand Lake Theater, really crowded this late in the morning, a bus ride downtown to have an iced café latte out on the patio at Peet's sitting beside another table where three young men in their early twenties were holding forth on religion the way you suspect Socrates and his crowd discussed Philosophy with a capital “P”. Youngsters on a religious high, in other words: smart, focused and flying. I've noticed that music and the arts often generate similar passion that sometimes only alcohol can ameliorate. One hopes they don't develop a need to change the minds and habits of others, particularly any of us who happen to be sitting at a nearby table sipping café latte while watching the people pass by.
But, indeed, back now at the apartment. Did I attend the event in the city yesterday afternoon? No. Did I attend the San Mateo County Fair? No. Did I instead sit at the computer and play FreeCell until dark? Well, no. Not a whole lot of FreeCell. I did, after all, take the time to watch my Chinese soaps to see if the pregnant wife, her son and father would be slaughtered by the girlfriend's father's minions. She was. They were, rather as Michael Corleone's wife was killed by a car bomb in Italy. Or does this seem complicated? Complicated, yes. Particularly as it's in Mandarin taking place in Hong Kong with subtitles in Chinese.