Last Of The Socks
Wednesday. To bed at ten, up three times during the night thinking this can't be good, but up without effort at the alarm, the morning overcast. What to say? Off to breakfast and back, the laundry running downstairs, the day ahead.
Later. The laundry done by eleven, out the door and downtown on the bus to walk through the Latham Square project (nothing new) and on to the City Center to listen briefly to the Wednesday noon hour band begin playing, a walk back down Telegraph entering Sears to see if they had any shirts in stock similar to the cloth denim looking thing I was wearing (all six of them are getting a bit frayed). They didn't, although they had something halfway close in their Levi's section, so out the door and onto the bus again to get lunch.
I'd had the waffle and fruit for breakfast and decided, for some reason, perhaps because I was hungry, to have a regular old waffle with butter and syrup, ice cream and lemonade out on the patio, the sky still overcast, the temperature decent sitting in a light jacket. A walk home then to, well, take a nap, the head wandering off into vaguely familiar impossible places for a good hour. This from a regular old waffle? Or because it's afternoon and it's in the mood to bang our gong, let us know who runs this place?
Anyway, it's now approaching five. Some guitar, I think, get a head of steam up as we move into the evening.
You said you weren't going to mention the guitar unless it was after you'd played and not before so that any of your - hup! hups! I'm going to do this or that - won't prove to be empty and embarrassing.
I did, didn't I. The head is still a bit fuzzy. But we'll play. Right now. Along with the news.
Evening. A good hour plus on the guitar. So there. Might even make it two, we're close as it is. Nothing I wanted to watch at six, did watch Democracy Now, sat through a different Korean soap set in ancient times that runs on Wednesdays and Thursdays, not as kinky as the one running Mondays and Tuesdays, but interesting enough. The family relationship thing that so dominates Korean fiction is still omnipresent, but set in a darker vein, more believable from this Western standpoint. Or so it seems.
More guitar and then to bed. Maybe finish putting away all that laundry by folding up the last of the socks.