Tuesday. I did watch Death In Paradise last night and yes, I had seen it before and yes, I remembered who'd done it and how and, well, what the hell, I watched it anyway. Not so with Mr. Rose. Sometimes his guests are of interest, often they're not. A good clean excuse to go to bed. He said. As he so often does.
To sleep after watching something mildly entertaining on the tablet that I now can't recall. Again, it seems I've been swallowed by this damned “i” tsunami: this creeping Millennial disease that has swallowed us all whole and taken control.
Off to breakfast under the overcast, up a little late after the alarm, but only a little late in getting out the door. Back to the apartment to post yesterday's entry and then to take a nap. Attempt a nap.
Later. The mind has been slow, but the day has been fast. Most of the morning in bed listening to the radio fade in and fade out, listening to a program about sleep - lack of sleep, needing sleep - picking up on the discussion of waking up at night (to take a leak more than once or twice) not being a product of aging, but a symptom of sleep apnea. Thought about that. I could be turning over when the side I'm sleeping on becomes sore, but turning over, not to the other side, but to lie on my back. I do suffer from apnea when I'm lying on my back. Something to think about. All that earlier grief and crap with sleep apnea: I don't want it back.
Similarly with their discussion of working with/watching a computer screen or tablet before going to bed, the light hypes the brain when what the brain really needs is to slow down in preparation for sleep. So maybe play with the placement of pillows to stop the flopping onto my back? Stop watching the computer/tablet after say seven? Six? Switch whatever I've been watching on the tablet to the computer or the television set?
And so the morning rushed right by (in bed) until it was time to leave for the guitar lesson as it approached two, had a chicken salad (again) at Genji's (the Men's Warehouse was empty as I passed by, the clothing and the racks and counters gone, out of business along with the Sears store five blocks farther down), breezed through the lesson (which I was dreading after all the practice I haven't managed this last week) and got on the next bus back to the apartment. Feel better now, the foggy-headedness of the morning pretty much gone as it usually does when the afternoon arrives.
And we're going to rearrange the guitar section in the living room, make it easier to see the music stand with or without the glasses, cue up the music more easily on the laptop (which I haven't even been attempting) and put a proper chair in place so that I can better settle in while playing.
Wouldn't it be better to just, you know, practice more?
We'll see soon enough if the new arrangement leads to more play or just me playing guitar head games in denial. We are doing this for the music, after all. We are, right? The music? Which we don't listen to nearly as much as we once did? As we've gotten older? Since our forties? He said. The room quiet. The guitar silent.
Evening. Nothing on television, haven't taken any pictures, to bed early. We will. He said before bed.