Wherever That Is
Sunday. To bed by ten, up at eight, the sun shining and bright. Just as the tourist bureau likes it.
A not quite soaked t-shirt when I awoke, this has been happening now every morning for the last three or four mornings, but less so, less soaked, with each and every morning. Probably a good sign. Hungry enough to eat most of this morning's breakfast, a Swiss cheese omelette with country potatoes, toast and coffee. I was able to drink the coffee, eat all of the not very many country potatoes and most of the toast. Another good sign, I'm thinking.
There's a moveon.org gathering later starting at noon in San Francisco that I'd normally go over and photograph, but I'm not sure I'm up for something quite that ambitious yet. Maybe. It's ten now as I write and a Sunday, I could easily take the car and park next to a BART station. No big deal, but do I want to carry a camera (let alone two cameras) over to the city to take pictures for an hour? Usually an easy enough trip, but I'm obviously fighting it.
Later. An hour's nap. Nice. Some cereal brought home this morning on the way back from breakfast, so we're not thinking of lunch. The sun is out, but it's after noon and we're obviously not going to photograph the Forward On The Climate support event in San Francisco. I have a magazine article to finish, photographs for it still to size, more than enough to fill out the rest of a weekend.
We got our time in yesterday, we'll get our time in today. Hanging on by our fingertips with all this, but so far encouraged.
My barber mentioned she was losing her shop in February, but we made an appointment for this coming Tuesday morning, just as we usually make appointments four weeks after a session, and she said she'd confirm the location of a new shop when it was settled. If not a permanent place, then a temporary chair in the area until she could get something together that made sense. I've not heard from her yet.
An example of what it means to be getting close to retirement age and having your work cut out from under you. The local financial situation here in Oakland hasn't been good. San Francisco has evidently been stronger, but Oakland, for fairly expensive hair styling anyway, has taken a hit. What do you do to salvage any kind of reasonable retirement in the middle of something like this?
Isn't just hair stylists, it's anyone in their fifties and early sixties who's industry has taken a hit. You read about it all the time, but up close and personal it allows you to see how lucky you've been in your own timing, the place where you happened to be working, a minor difference in either of which could have put you in, if not the same, then similar, circumstances.
The cost of not watching what's been happening over these last decades in business and government. I certainly missed it coming, although I knew though school training and early employment in the financial industry what to look for. This is more politics than rocket science.
Well, mumble, we're at least feeling better. Spacey, but better. Maybe another nap, maybe more guitar, but right now another few paragraphs for that damned photography article.
Evening. A new Italian detective series at six about an older enologist with a young, two person staff added for laughs. Well, maybe not laughs. For something. The reason I don't sound sure is I didn't watch enough of it to know and so, strumming along on guitar I surfed other weekend programs I've dipped into before, two of the Korean ones that drone on and on, chapter after chapter, the various internal story lines moving in parallel at a snail's pace. What the hell.
Some progress with the state of the head, still not enough, the body popping along on maybe three cylinders, don't ask me if I've a four or a six cylinder engine. Eight cylinders left this gate decades ago. To bed relatively early methinks, pick it up again tomorrow where I've left it off. Wherever that is.