Still, Who Knows?
Sunday. I did get to bed at nine, staying up to watch the first minute or two of the set in Venice police procedural I mentioned and then said the hell with it. Probably for the best as I slept in til eight on what has turned out to be a clear and sunny morning. A bit cool, but it's December, you understand, a better day would be difficult to imagine.
That said we're back at the apartment having posted yesterday's entry, not sure how the day will unfold. Get out the door and go somewhere is the usual solution, but the question is always where and the answer, at least lately, has been uninspired. Hard to find decent pictures when you're uninspired. Wired and uninspired.
Wired's good. It might get you going.
Well, who knows? It's ten, wired or tired, time to move along.
Later. The nextbus app said, as I was putting on my jacket in the apartment, the downtown bus was due to arrive in two minutes at my local stop, so I headed out the door thinking I'd get aboard and head downtown if I managed to beat the bus without particularly hurrying. We tied, so downtown it was.
Nothing is open in the City Center on a Sunday, but I took a walk through anyway and then walked on through Old Oakland beyond the Marriott convention center to have coffee and a cookie out at a table at one of the local cafés, managing to spill most of a full cup of coffee as I opened the door. My pale blue denim pants suddenly sprouted a great many brown spots. Embarrassing more than anything, an old man who can't hold onto his coffee. It happens. Not very often, fortunately, not often enough to freak me out. Too much.
OK, a walk then back along Broadway to catch the bus home (and change these damned pants, spraying them with the spot remover soap - I should really wash them sooner than later, but I probably won't) and, it turns out, to stay here and futz about. The sinus-upper palate is still doing its routine, a kind of background ache just strong enough to let you know it's there without freaking you out, but indeed knocking you down by a couple of miles per hour.
You do complain write about it a lot.
It's an ongoing conversation I've been having with my sinuses now for many years. Are they getting worse? I think they may be, except for the times I don't. (A warning here for anyone who's surgeon wants to get up into their sinuses with a knife: watch out! Just because they don't mention their intention doesn't mean they won't!!)
Later still. Late afternoon, feel better, the day going well. They do seem to start slowly, but then open up in the afternoons with those fortunately few exceptions (lately, at least) when an ocular migraine comes along. You'd think there'd be a clue in that, but so far not. I do bring it up with the neurologist with every visit, another one due this next month. I do. He smiles, nothing he can see in the MRI's so far, but he keeps prescribing more.
So, guitar, I think. We're going to have a good day on the guitar and we'll know by the next paragraph whether or not I'm blowing smoke.
Evening. Some smoke, not too much, we've made progress and have plenty of time left for more practice before bed. One of the chord changes I found difficult seems to have resolved itself (as they often do), the fingers suddenly finding a way to get it done. Interesting thing to see and experience.
Nothing on at six, so I watched Moyers and Company on public television, Moyers interviewing the author Junot Díaz who made some comments on literature, some analyses of Science Fiction, that I'd not thought about before. Nice. So I checked to see what he'd written, what I'd read of his in the past.
If I should be so foolish as to order his The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (nice title) I probably wouldn't read it. Reality, you know, it does on occasion creep into the mix. Still, who knows?