To The Wall
Wednesday. And I did get to bed before nine last night, the last thing I remember seeing was the clock showing nine-twenty, so to sleep at a decent hour, awake some ten minutes before the alarm was due to sound thinking “do I want to do this?” and finding myself up and out the door right on time. Feeling pretty good for an old fart who likes to complain. Explain. Babble on after breakfast.
Overcast this morning, they were saying up near seventy degrees later, but they've said that and been wrong over recent days, so we'll see. Have no thoughts of what to do, I did lie down for a while without any danger (it turned out) of getting to sleep. It's closing in on eleven, a ray of sun coming from somewhere through the clouds.
Later. A walk over to the lake with a long lens to see what I could see. Not many birds out on the lake and they all looked to be hunkered down against the cold, although the birds near the white column pergola were all feeding, bobbing up and down like the Mallard up above.
Back to the apartment and then a bus downtown doing the usual “why am I doing this?” routine. I wasn't hungry and had no leverage to tempt myself with lunch, so onto the bus, getting off at the City Center at close to one.
People about, but still overcast and no desire for coffee or to sit out at a table, so a walk on through Latham Square (seeing the TV camera to the right I was wondering how the City Counsel meeting had gone last night and, looking it up just now, see they're going to add another traffic lane). On to Grand and the Webster bus stop.
All of three pictures while out, this one while waiting for the bus, raising the camera just in time for the picture (I'd noted the shoes from the back, didn't see the woman turn around to look as I shot), but not with enough time to zoom in closer. My bad. Missed the better shot.
Home now, still not hungry, still not having the slightest clue as to what to do, not desperate enough (quite yet) to do the things I should be doing. Or is that not news?
Later still. The people who broke into an FBI office in suburban Philadelphia on my birthday in 1971 have been in the news these last few days after revealing their identity after all these many intervening years. This happened two years after I'd moved to San Francisco at a time when I was following the news, following the war, following the Civil Rights movement although I don't/can't remember this particular event.
It happened in Philadelphia on the other coast, but still, I wonder what I was doing that I missed it. Don't remember it. The Church Committee that followed, certainly I followed, but what kicked that investigation off didn't seem to register. I'd read some of the literature on the FBI and how it operated in college, the dark side of the agency, Hoover and his little transgressions. One of the reasons I joined the ACLU so early in school. Still.
At least you can't blame it on any current loss of memory, you'd lost it forty-two years ago if you were ever aware of its significance.
I guess. Nothing much here to worry about.
Evening. Nothing on television again. I started The Ninth Gate directed by Roman Polanski, a Johnny Depp movie on Netflix that I haven't seen before. Maybe watch the rest of that. Get to bed early. Play guitar. Earn another gold star. Pin it to the wall.