Friday. This, as it happens, is the second day of a week's vacation. I've cancelled plans to go to the family party in Seattle and I'm going to put my feet up and relax. I have this idea I'll do things I've put off for at least the last year (developing the many rolls of black and white film that sit in my closet fleetingly comes to mind) and see how I feel at the end of it. The head is funky and I haven't felt altogether wonderful out on the street for this last few years. In front of a computer screen at home, doing what I do at the office: well, those I can get done, but any ambition (as I once had ambition) to wander out alone with a camera is now much diminished. And it's not a loss of interest - I still get a kick out of pictures - it's a loss of clear headed mobility and I need to either adjust, if it's not going away, or I need to track down another set of doctors who can tell me what's going on.
You're getting old and cranky and bitch too much.
Well, I am getting old. All I have to do is notice it's 2006 and I was born in 1943 and that means to me, well, I'm sixty-three, deedle-dee-dee and going on sixty-four in a few months more and lots of folks have fallen down dead at a much younger age than mine. Deedle-dee-dine.
Most people would be embarrassed to say that.
At my age nobody pays any attention.