Sunday. So much for the strobe light and the super wide lens. Cliff House said they'd check, I left a message with BART and I'll go by their lost and found next week, just in case. I believe we have the phone number of the cab we used and I left a message with MRE to find out. Just part of the deal, I think. Not to worry. Life is too short to worry and it's the middle day of a three day weekend. And yes, I was pretty far gone from what's left of my memory of Friday in the city and I think I won't do that again. Bring a shoulder bag. Camera, yes. One brings one's camera when one is geeking it as seriously as I am geeking it, here at the end of the rainbow in camera land.
Today, clear headed (I'd go into how much better I've been feeling this week, but I'm not sure any of us could stand it.) with another page of dykes on bikes up on artandlife. I keep thinking I could make a lot more progress if I didn't have to work for a living, but then I think that most of the time (another theme we don't need to revisit). This is routine, I guess, background noise; something I wouldn't notice if it weren't for the fact that I write it down every bleeding day. And, what the hell, I exchange the occasional email with MSW to compare scars. And talk about it over lunch with the similarly inclined at the office. And talk about it here. Did I mention I talk about it here? A well worn cliche, “did I mention that I...?” Made me wince as I typed. Not enough time in the day for wincing, not enough care about your image if you don't go back and delete it.
And what is your image?
One advantage to getting old(er) is you realize it doesn't much matter. Yes, there is such a thing as an image, yes, most people work these things out in high school (or learn to observe the process and make later adjustments - a board room, for example, operates pretty much like your old high school home room, but with, you know, different symbols), but I, a loner since I can remember, have been slow to address the concept. Does a sixty year old man wear a wide brimmed white hat and bought in Berkeley shades to the office trying to look like, what? A twenty-two year old gangster guy? Yes and no, mostly no. Gives you opportunities for some more rigorous self examination, though. They say a teenager is an adult who hasn't gotten his or her act in place. What say you to a sixty year old man who hasn't “quite gotten his act in place”? Not sure. Maybe it's one of the reasons you keep a journal.
I was thinking of going by the office tomorrow. (But I won't. I should, but I won't.) Better to not buy into your own bullshit. There are many things to be done at the office, that should have been done last week, that (more important) I could have gotten done if I'd been less a flake. Maybe that's why I got so plastered Friday night. A need to blow out the carbon. How long does a good carbon cleaning last? I sure as hell don't want to do too many more nights like that, losing a shoulder bag or not. They say the physical body can only take so much before it, you know, stops. Sushi tonight, I think. Sake, but a single flask. Here in Oakland.