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She likes my journal !!

They have better beds on the A ward.

Near the office.

January 19th, 2001

That's About It
Got in from work around ten last night, no time for the journal, just enough time to get into bed, read a little and fall off to sleep. Mr. Jung was describing some of his earlier experiences as a psychoanalyst. These descriptions, which included the confessions of two murderers (both women, interestingly: one her child, another who wanted to marry her best friend's husband), were excellent preparation for sleep and sleep I did. Murder loses its appeal, it seems, after ten. (The woman did marry her best friend's now widowed husband, but ultimately found poisoning troublesome.)

In late again this evening with the weekend clear and open. What can I do that I haven't done a hundred times before? I'll think of something. I am not a man who is easily bored. The writing will run stale, the photography will run stale, but there's always something else. Naps, for instance. Soliloquies with Wuss.

The lunch with MSW and MRL was interesting. MSW and I got off the train and started off in the wrong direction (we'd been talking, each thinking the other was leading us to our destination) and doubled back when we discovered the error, running into MSH, an old manager of mine and friend of MSW, who was now working with another company in San Francisco, who had often joined us for these very same lunches in the past and was returning to her now current job after picking up a take out lunch from a local restaurant. So she joined us, offering her take out meal to a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk. (Who turned her down, having just bought and was now sitting down on the sidewalk to eat his own take out lunch, perhaps the same lunch from the same restaurant, which was weird, but interesting.)

There are two ways to look at an incident like this: One, MSW and I were ding-a-lings for jabbering Near the Berkeley campus. along and missing our street, and another, more perceptive perhaps, which wonders at the fact that we got off the train and set off at precisely the right tangent to find MSH and make us a foursome. I believe these things happen for a reason. I'm not particularly sure what reason, we met MRL at the restaurant and had a good two hour lunch, MRL and I doing most of the listening, MSW and MSH doing most of the talking (much of which had to do with our current situation at the company, but all of it at a higher level of management and experience with more insight and intelligence than my own. Interesting observations about the inner tickings of people I know and work with, but know differently and with less depth.). No one ran off at the end to a Las Vegas chapel, no one was murdered, the lights never flickered, but altogether, because MSW and I slipped off into our collective subconscious and made that "chance" meeting, satisfactory.

Then again, I would rather have had lunch with MRL and MSW alone. The perspective would have been different. We might have touched on other subjects. Which is why I say these things happen for a reason, but who knows what reason? Subconscious attractions. Perhaps I shouldn't be reading Jung.

A reader asked me who these MRL, MSW, MSH, MSJ people were. Couldn't I put together a little table that gave more information? Well, no. If you notice, all of them start with MR or MS as in Mister or Mizz. A safe bet might be that the third letter stood for their last name. If you know me at my office and you know the people I know, then you know who these people are. Other than that, their actual names aren't necessary. These are nice people. They let me take their photographs and run them here. Most know about, but do not read the journal. You've seen photographs of all of them with the exception of MSW. MSW doesn't want her picture here or anywhere else or you'd have seen her here too. I like MSW and respect her wishes. That's about it.

The banner photograph was taken some years ago near the office and the bicycle racers were shot during the same period beside the Berkeley campus. The quote is by Samuel Johnson.