Yet To Run
Saturday. There's no rule that says sliding into a funk, even a long lasting funk, must last forever, even at our age. One can blame many things on age, it has its reputation, but getting into a funk doesn't preclude getting out now and again for a breather.
Well, a rut. A set of habits. Allowing one's self to wallow. This is a new year, there's no reason the new year can't light new and/or old fires again and get us out doing things in our head if not in the world again. A renewed start to taking pictures, pictures that interest, pictures that capture our imagination, pictures that call us to different places. Cause us to occasionally drive over a bridge, put behind us all this mental masturbation.
We're doing another “Hup!” routine here in other words.
Yeah, probably. We did watch the first of those Sherlock Holmes episodes last night. I'd seen the first one, found it uneven as I'd found it uneven when this particular series was first introduced with Benedict Cumberbatch playing the iconic detective. I started the second episode and then decided it was time for bed. A little late to be going to bed after yesterday's fussing, but to bed at what was still a decent hour, up with the alarm without a problem.
Overcast, the streets damp, they're saying maybe a light rain later, but we're still up for running some errands. A visit to the hardware store, a run by an ATM, a run by the pharmacy. With a camera. Take pictures as we find them. The attitude better: hup! Let's see if we can maintain, not make a joke of it.
Later. A grey day so far yet without rain. A walk over to the ATM on Lakeshore through the farmers market, camera in hand, but no pictures. OK, grey, we can do this, two scoops of ice cream at the ice cream shop couldn't hurt, a walk then to a bus stop and on downtown to pick up those prescriptions. And vitamins. I'm down to only taking vitamins recommended by the doctor, three of them, no more adding my own choices from reading something in a newspaper. Too many somethings in a newspaper.
A bus now back home after a cup of coffee and a bun at the bagel shop sitting out at a table. No pictures. I thought of taking one or two, but my eye wasn't seeing, composing out of habit, a copy of a copy of a copy of one I've done in the past. That everyone has done in the past. No complaints, a grey day, cold, but it's January, these days happen.
Guitar now, I think. We'll go through the two assigned songs now after having gone over and over two of the riffs that have been making me stumble. Progress, even on a grey day in Oakland.
Later still. I decided, in a rare swing away from my never ending ability to procrastinate, to restring the Telecaster, this the first time since I bought it. I suspect real guitar players restring first thing with a new guitar, but it sounded good when it arrived and, again, I'm quite good at rationalizing, delaying and avoiding.
It's quite different than changing the strings on a Strat. At least my Strat. Easier. Quicker. A different design. Wham, bam, thank you mam and it's done.
To use a sexual comparison.
I guess, but a softer/safer comparison. One does not want to be too crude in references to one's guitar. Anyway, it's been restrung and I should probably do the Strat, but not tonight. We're up for taking two steps forward, just not all at once.
And it now sounds better?
It sounds different. I'd say better, but I'm not sure I can tell. Better than what? Cleaner, I think, and that's good. The Telecaster is a nice guitar, but then I'm not sure I'm far enough along to appreciate the difference. Toys for boys, rather than a musical step forward I can appreciate.
Sounds like your camera.
Evening. Nothing on television, we'll take a look at something on Netflix (no doubt), but later, our practice session has time yet to run.