Best To Forget
Thursday. Well, I managed to lose my original morning's writing due to some glitch in Dreamweaver. I think. It's happened once or twice before now, never in the past, never with the old Dreamweaver, but it could be moi, I suppose, in another less likely world. Such is life. It wasn't that great, my morning prose, but it was written and done and had set the tone for what I was thinking for this afternoon's entry.
Suffice it to say I got to bed and to sleep no later than ten last night, as I said I might, got up without an alarm well after eight. Good. The lungs were somewhat congested, not good, the general physical feeling was negative, but none the less to breakfast, the papers and back before ten, the head and body ready to go out for a walk in the sun by noon. I haven't mentioned the sun yet, but it's out there full force, although the air is cold. Bright sun, some warmth when you're in it, but otherwise (California as opposed to Alaska) cold. Couldn't be better.
I did walk by the lake briefly to take another picture in the same area as the picture I took yesterday, thinking this one wouldn't be as depressing under sunlight, but it was no great shakes either and I hiked the camera back over my shoulder and headed on to take the picture that ended up above. My photographic outing for the morning.
A walk by Walden Books to buy that calendar. This one, as I've done in the past, is a collection of old sixties Avalon Ballroom posters. Part of my history. A blurb on the back, the copyright held by the estate of Chester Helms. Chet Helms, one of the out of Austin Texans who'd come to some of the San Francisco Rip Off Press parties down on 17th street in the early seventies. We talked about sharing an apartment once after he'd moved his Family Dog offices nearby.
I wasn't sure about how that would work out, how many people that might mean coming in and out of a shared apartment, so I backed off. Silly me. He's been gone now for a number of years. Even then, during those parties in the period he was promoting that last series of the concerts, the underground poster scene, if not the local music scene, was dead. The comix scene was still functioning, but it's place in history had been made, and it was time even then for other scenes to move in and take the lead. It happens quickly, when it happens, this life.
Back now. The head reasonably clear, it was clear enough earlier to walk down the way for the calendar and to sit out waiting on a bus at the morning café thinking of maybe having a Coke as I was waiting, but not clear enough for anything more, really. Maybe a drive over to Jack London or something later. I'd like to get out, don't mind staying in, stuck in the old “who am I, where am I now” conundrum, but otherwise nothing too exciting going on. Nothing that hasn't happened now most every day, sitting here happily enough at the computer, rambling.
Later. Well, end of year. I guess there is a certain looking back involved. My going through he old Rip Off Press pictures. That was a long time ago, same period as the calendar posters I talked about. Long gone. Good to remember, I guess, but nothing to obsess about. There have been chapters in between, none of them as interesting in retrospect, although the years at the container ship company were good. They're gone as well, most of what they were is gone anyway, I'm still able to maintain some of the friendships that were made.
Earlier I read over a list of people in the Times who've died in this last year, people who've made a some kind of difference, saw Lynn Redgrave's name on the list, the Georgy Girl from the movie (a movie I suspect you'd only remember if you'd been around back then), she the only “star” I've found that was born on my own birthday. A little more nostalgia here, but we've reached a limit. We'll let the old lives lie, a New Year coming. There's a reason for that, the New Year coming. Yes it's best to remember sometimes, then again, sometimes it's best to forget.