Sunday. Over and back from breakfast at the usual time and place this morning: a mixed fruit plate, toasted bagel and green tea. A vague uneasiness in the stomach, the term “sour stomach” comes to mind, a stomach on the edge. The tea? I had lemon tea yesterday. The mixed fruit? Acidic? I'm thinking best I got that appointment with the gastro medics scheduled for tomorrow or you'd be hearing me whining with soulful violins playing in the background before the week was out.
Still, with a “sour stomach” I decided to take a nap when I returned. It doesn't seem to matter how much sleep I've gotten the night before, my habit now is to get up early for breakfast (and avoid having to feed the parking meters) and return for what is almost always about an hour's nap, an hour and a half if you add the time it takes to drift off. Don't they tell stories about old folks who get up at the crack of dawn? I think they do. And do they all take naps later in the day? I believe I've heard that's true.
I got my heating bill for last month and it was double the usual amount. Cold for Oakland. Of course I was here during the day where in the past I'd have been at the office. These last few days, however, and they're saying the week coming has been and will be unusually warm, the temperatures are in the high sixties. That's the California I know. Global warming or not, California weather is always all over the block. Rain, no rain; cold for a week and then it's not: the seasons come, the seasons go, all of them bringing their own thermometers. Seventy degrees in January is not the norm, but then it's not all that unusual, so I will happily take these days coming and maybe stick my nose out the door.
Later. Wilson looked better. I arrived after one and we sat and talked a bit while watching a movie. From what I can see he's been drawing since I saw him last weekend and watching a never ending stream of movies, so we discussed art and life and watched AVP: Alien vs. Predator, a special effects science fiction movie that takes place in a pyramid two thousand feet below the ice sheet on an island in Antarctica. My habit of watching movies and then with time forgetting the plot can come in handy as I realized I'd seen it before, but had no idea what was going to happen at any given moment or how it would be resolved. Anyway, progress on Mr. Wilson's part. He's not there yet, but he's definitely sharper. I'm hopeful.
On the way back I picked up a steak sandwich for dinner. How's that for playing with fire? The stomach? Well, we'll know in another thirty minutes or so but for the moment I think I'll take one of the antacid pills and check what's on TV. The trip to San Francisco doesn't seem to have done any harm, the attitude good since I got up this morning, I'm not particularly tired and I'm back now thinking of mischief. Play with fire mischief: eat an orange on top of the sandwich, light some candles with the funky burn your fingers matches, pet Ms. Emmy, open a book. The opportunities are endless.
Later still. Bad luck on that sandwich.