I worked on my company web site today. What a rock pile. Embarrassing. Still, it's gotten me stoked and my promise to hibernate for the next two months buried under a techno-babble jumble of unpolished html, while the wider company at large works out the details of where we're going and who's in charge, seems doable. When I think about the week long Windows 2000 class I have coming up in San Francisco at the end of the month, the all day long "down and dirty" web design class following on the next Monday, the ship's tour Wednesday, good for an hour on deck and a long lunch, a ten day vacation with camera driving up the coast to the northern reaches of Washington State, it all begins to fall into place. I can do this. I can do this leftover month of html.
It is Friday and my mood is good, don't you think? The routine of a thousand Friday nights, the news hour followed by three half hour talk shows. What's a thousand Fridays? Twenty years? Twenty years of news hours and talking heads? Let's say five hundred. Ten years. I had other years of Friday nights and television had nothing whatsoever to do with them.
The next morning. Too many adjectives. Too much writing without any meaning. Still, I've had breakfast, coffee and a Cranberry muffin, and I have a day in front of me.
It is possible, I discover, to wander around the bay area by car and BART, stopping here for a
coffee, stopping there for lunch, stopping at another place for a latte. Casual. Take your time. No plans. Get up and go when you get up and go. I took the train to San Francisco and got off at the Embarcadero station near the financial district where I once spent ten years of my life working. On and off. I went by One Maritime Plaza, a large building faced with what looks like dark aluminum, darker still with all the white stone faced buildings around it, great dark criss crossing beams like giant x'es three or four floors tall. I worked there in the mid 1970's, so I went up to the second level plaza where they once had some very large Benny Bufano scuptures sitting at the base of the building. I worked there when Bufano died, I seem to remember, in 1970 or 1971. Hated the job. It took me years to understand that when it should have taken me about twenty seconds.
The Bufano's were gone, replaced by some very nice Picasso-esque looking things about chest high. I
assume the Bufano's, even when weighing thousands of pounds, were in danger of theft. Or defacement. Or losing some of their value through rain erosion. I have no idea, but I am assuming the Bufano's have become more valuable over these intervening thirty years. I have not an idea.
Anyway, a walk through One Maritime Plaza, a walk by City Lights Bookstore and a quick look at Spec's around 3:30, not open til 5:00 in the afternoon and a walk back to the BART station. Two good photographs missed because I didn't have the guts or the sense to shoot them, neither one of the subjects looking like the kind of people who would give me trouble. Talk with self. Wake up self. Do better. "Yes", said self.
For whatever reason this was not a day to do laundry, so I didn't, not a day to write a journal entry, but I did, and very much a day to take some naps. This is OK. I am getting better about not fretting the little shit. I took the naps. I fed the cat. Progress.