Home To Roost
Sunday. To bed last night cutting out in the middle of what I suspect was an interesting episode of House, but figured it was late and time to go to bed. Slept until eight, awakening to find the sinuses in a fist fight. Were they acting up because I'd slept with my head at a weird angle on the pillow? Who knows? Up, get dressed, take the morning meds, extract the advertising pages from the papers to drop into the recycle bin on the way to the garage, blow the nose and we're gone. Hup.
They'd saved my table, probably unnecessarily as their dining room didn't really fill until after I'd arrived, so a quiet breakfast over the papers, the day nice outside. Back to the apartment then to face yesterday's undying prose. Best not to look until you're wide awake and can stand the shock. Two sides of a single coin? Side one, you're writing while fuzzy headed and fractured, so the prose is incoherent (worse yet embarrassing); side two, you're fuzzy headed and fractured as you're reading it the next morning and can't really tell if you've kicked the can down the road or rung the bell.
And so I left the computer, went to bed and took a long nap, got up again late in the morning and did what I could do through edits, deletions and CPR. I'm obviously fuzzy and fractured enough during the day to scribble it out, but not so fuzzy and fractured the next morning that I don't notice.
And fuzzy and fractured enough you're unable to turn it around.
That's about it. I may end up being one of the many minor footnotes in later histories, one of the many unintended consequences during the development of the web: the journals, the blogs, the pictures and such, blissful blathering at the continental edge.
Later. Well, fuzzy. Fuzzy is forgetting the 49'ers start the playoff game at noon. Fuzzy is noticing the lighter crowd at the morning café and not understanding the cause. Fuzzy is hearing shouting in the distance when I returned to the apartment, thinking a party of some kind, not understanding people were going nuts as they were watching the game. And fuzzy and lucky is turning on the game with a minute and ten seconds left on the clock to see the 49'ers, having come back from seventeen points behind, win (and go on to the Superbowl). I wonder if I'll repeat this same routine when the Superbowl plays, whenever it plays.
Otherwise what to say? A walk over to the Lakeshore ATM and then around to the morning café for the usual fare out on their patio, feeling some ocular symptoms, just the very beginning of symptoms, but definitely there. Back to the apartment to take a nap, up now with the symptoms pretty much gone.
The sake last night, combined with the pork chop, eggs and country potatoes for breakfast? I'd asked them to hold their “seasonings” and they assured me they would, but my guess is that's not really possible. They aren't something you add at the last minute or you can just scrape off the griddle.
But what the hell. High sixties, t-shirt weather, although I was wearing a winter coat while out, not too warm as long as I wasn't walking in the direct sun for too long.
Evening. A Vares Swedish detective series episode at six, which I believe I mumbled about last week, but watched the new one again this evening (mumbling again). Mr. Vares, like all good fictional detectives (with their own television series), lives along the edge but seems to depend on luck more than smarts to stay alive as he's wheeling in the bad guys. I have nothing against luck (and, in his case, alcohol), always happy to have any and all that may come my way, but best to remain at least conscious if not smart, you'd think, when there are people out actively after your life.
Aren't you making too much of a TV program, Swedish or not?
Could be my frustration with the character is diverting attention to playing along more on the guitar. I could warm to such a rationalization. A tighter series of chords brought to you by a Swedish detective lying flat on his back on the floor of a bar.
To bed early tonight. No more pork chops for breakfast, we'll go with the waffle and the fruit. The alcohol, however, we'll still run the occasional experiment to see if we can't find a way to keep it in our mix. Keep it to two in an evening - he said, relatively straight faced as if he believed it - it does indeed calm the sinuses and numbs the palate. More than two doesn't seem to add much other than a hammer to the evening and then fouling the nest the next morning when the whiskey chickens come a hopping home to roost.