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Basement garage. Woman from the past.
August 25th, 1999

Need Them Regrets
Wuss is lying out on the balcony under a chair. He's not doing hand stands and he's still dragging his tail, but I notice he ate some of that "tasty dolphin laced tuna" cat food I put out for him this morning and he visited the cat box, no accidents on the rug. He looks kinda scraggly with his fur all humid and matted (as if he'd been sweating), but he looks better. I'll still call the vet and go over him later looking for any swelling where he may have been bitten or smitten, but I suspect he's turned the corner. Relapse isn't in my vocabulary.

Walked to work again today as I did yesterday and the aches and pains are fading. I'll know I'm in Mr. Wuss. the groove when I get back to the apartment and use the stairs instead of the elevator. Those last few blocks up the hill are doing me good, but they don't encourage me to skip the elevator yet. I say this, a complete neophyte in all things physical (I earned my varsity letter in bowling, remember) because I am encouraged. Nothing really evil like running around a lake in combat boots preparing to enter the Infantry as a leader of men. I've been reading Scott's journal and his matter of fact day to day descriptions of roller blade workouts, realizing what real workouts might entail, both a glimpse of the mind set and the mechanics, but I feel good about my piddly little walk to work anyway. I pass a health club on the way in and look through the big plate glass windows at bodies striding on treadmills and pumping iron while their inhabitants listen to CDs through headphones or watch television monitors mounted up on the ceilings and I think no way, but I get this little high none the less walking to the office. At the end of this month I turn in my parking pass. Revolution. In Oakland.

I have my piece to write on "regret" for my On Display collab by the end of the month. For some reason "regret" has pushed some buttons. Regret what? Who on this planet lives without regret? Who on this planet says he lives without regret? Who on this planet, who says he lives without regret, is suffering from repressed regrets of every flavor and taste and just won't admit it? Moi? Be interesting if it were true, although we rarely get good meaty black and white issues out of these things we can smear all over our journal pages. Well, the weekend is coming with time to write. They're installing my DSL line on Tuesday the last day of the month just in time to inform my fellow On Displayers that I have delivered the goods. I'm curious what sort of goods, anemic pale little fellows invented at the last minute or some personal revelatory stuff involving Linda or Diana or Susan or Elisabeth? Or that Microsoft stock I was offered but didn't buy in 1985. Regrets. Need them regrets.

The banner photograph was taken from by parking slot against the back wall as I was moving some boxes to the new apartment. Big cement affair with an automatic door. The photograph of the lady has shown up twice now in my new apartment pictures. The photograph was taken over thirty years ago. The photograph of Mr. Wuss was taken this evening with the digital camera. He looks OK, but he's faking it.