Or The Suburbs
Well this day has been a throwback to earlier not so pleasant days. Tired, various pains and numbness interspersed with naps since I'm on vacation and, um, "resting". This will probably pass tomorrow as all things pass tomorrow. With any luck it will pass by afternoon, although it's already two. In the afternoon.
An opportunity to learn, young man.
We said that yesterday about PhotoShop. In this mood I'm thinking of skipping renting a car tomorrow and driving north. Clean up around here, maybe go out and look at cars. Sounds right, doesn't it? Go look for a car when you don't feel up to driving?
God works her magic in wondrous ways.
One hopes one is not being noticed by god, little "g" or big "G". There are enough apocalyptic shenanigans in the world, no need to bring any home here to Oakland. I'd like to limit my excitement for a while to feeding the cat and taking the occasional photograph. And, unfortunately, paying the rent. Silly me.
Later. An email from family central reminding us the party is Sunday. So I was right, it actually is this weekend and I have no excuse now but to rent a car and head north. Which is good. I can do it. One way or another. Hup!
How wasted are you, really?
Nothing too terrible. The kind of day you spend in bed (if you're lucky). A week or a month of these days would probably clear up the job stress or the life stress or the photography stress (still putting off developing that black and white I shot at the Gay Pride Parade) or whatever stress might be ailing me. Schedule that hiatal hernia with the surgeon, since it seems to be part of what I've been experiencing.
You know, you could read any one of your journal entries and you'd have read them all.
I often think that, although I believe the writing has been getting better. Art as a way to analyze life; journal as psychotherapy; a form of analysis amenable to the loner. I'm OK with that. Better this than alcohol. Or television. Or the suburbs.