Pill And Chill
Monday. Life is silly. Friday I ended the entry with the phrase “dreaming a life” as in “life is but a dream” and later thought, well is there a www.dreamingalife.com? Well, is there punk? There is now. Silly? Yeah, of course. Is someone out there going to pay me a million dollars for it one day to have it for their own? No. Will I have fun with it? I already have.
I take it yesterday's barbecue fell through?
Well, it did, but it was a good day, none the less, futzing around with this stuff. Another sign, perhaps, we're pulling our little head out of our funk.
Back from breakfast and reading the papers, by the way: the sky overcast, the air cool, the attitude good.
Later. Part of my growing into retirement has been the realization I should be looking for things that interest me that I can do here at the apartment and not necessarily out there on the street. This hangup suggesting I should be going somewhere, driving somewhere, flying somewhere, walking, well, that's good, but there's only so much of that you can do before you have to come home.
I was thinking about this as I set out earlier this afternoon (with a camera, of course) for the downtown, thinking, well, where exactly am I going and why? What's this immediate need to get out of the house, why this drive to get outside when I've just been congratulating myself on finding entertaining ways to stay home? I walked to breakfast this morning, yes, knowing it wasn't enough daily exercise, so I used this to rationalize walking through the Old Oakland area before taking a bus back to Broadway and Grand to shoot a picture I'd noticed on the way in. Then, walking the rest of the way home, I continued to think about the fact my sinus-head thing had been acting up since I'd left the apartment, why again was I out here on the street? Best not to ask such questions maybe, lest you find answers?
I was not experiencing the vertigo, by the way, the feeling that at any given moment the weasels might reappear, the furry little rivers of snarling animals scurrying toward me from the streets; the airborne contingent, raining down from the rooftops in tiny little parachutes made out of postcards, Scotch tape and string: claws as sharp as sharp, eyes as red as red, all of them looking for old guys with cameras with larceny in their hearts. None of that. Have I ever mentioned I've never been able to get a picture of a single one? The weasels the reason I started carrying a camera in the first place? Something to show people who might not otherwise believe me? About the parachutes? I haven't mentioned that?
Best you take your meds now.
The little white ones that calm me down? Good thinking. I'm watching the PBS News Hour at the moment, sitting at the computer. I believe I'll open the balcony door, let some of that good cool air inside, take the pill... and chill. Maybe take a nap.