To The Wind
Friday. The minute you say anything about it - my, my, I seem to be feeling quite well these last few days, bright eyed and bushy tailed, a spring in the step and the smile on the lips and all that - it takes a dive for the worse, so we won't say a thing, now, will we.
Up with the alarm this morning. I don't quite remember when I got to sleep last night, but it wasn't all that late. Out and back from breakfast feeling up on the curve, back now to get the journal out of the way, check the various news sites I like and then to, well, do something today rather than wait for the Jack London Night Out later in the evening? Or go by the first Friday of the month Art Murmur? We'll see.
Later. The overcast is gone and the sun has arrived, yes it has, just as it has in the late mornings for the last week, month, year, life (except for those brief periods of rain I can no longer quite recall), so a walk around the loop and over the hill to the morning café for an early afternoon dish of ice cream and large cup of coffee (cut by a third with water). Pretty hot stuff, you'd think, out there in the rest of the world where nothing quite as exciting as this ever happens.
We are what? Moaning and groaning?
No, we are merely tip toeing along on the juvenile side of silly. The day is going well. A nap before setting out, taking time afterward when I awoke to allow the head and body to reassemble; a good walk, a couple of pictures and now it's one in the afternoon. We'll do the Friday Night Out later or we'll do the Art Murmur down the way, depending on my mood and whether or not I'll want to drive, so no trips to the Alameda County Fair today, not that there was ever really a chance in the air I'd go to the fair. So there.
You can stop.
Later still. An internal debate about going down to Jack London or heading over to the Art Murmur, ending in a walk out the door obviously too late to catch the bus that would take me by the Art Murmur, but for whatever reason, deciding to walk on to the where the Jack London bus picks up, even though, by my watch, it was way too late. Except this one time it wasn't. It too was running late and, when I arrived at its stop some blocks down Grand, it arrived and we met. Kismet, even if you don't believe in Kismet, on a street named Grand.
So, what is a Jack London Square Night Out? A bit like the Sunday farmers market, but smaller. Lots of people clustered around the Last Chance Saloon, some fast food tents, people selling their art and crafts, but that was about it. The Dancing Under the Stars area had been setup, but it wasn't due to start for another hour.
So I walked to the other side of the Square to check out Beverages & More for some sake to take home for later, but couldn't find any I really wanted, so I caught the bus back to my neighborhood 7-11 look-alike, picked up a small, slip into your pocket and drink on the way to the party 150ml bottle of Jack Daniels, but found the Hagen Daz section of their freezer still on the fritz and so walked on to the local Domino's and ordered one of their personal size pizzas. Pepperoni and mushroom. Out their door and home some fifteen minutes later.
Now my trip to Jack London was, well, a bit of adventure in the sense the sinus-upper palate thing was acting up. It, for whatever reason, really hurt. And this set the world right on the edge of making me feel isolated and vulnerable, an old man with a walker in his head. Good to be out in the air, but not so good to be wandering around with a camera without a picture to be found. Maybe good to have gone out for the walking, but right back to see if the whiskey and the pizza might help. The little personal size pies are small and in my hands go down quickly, so quickly I'm really not sure how it tasted. Maybe for the better. The whiskey, however, did seem to work.
So we're a little blitzed, but the sinus-upper palate aching is well in check and the attitude is into the good again, albeit flying a bit under the influence. Not all that far under the influence, but under the influence. Here in the safety of one's own apartment. In Oakland.
Some idle thinking during all this about what the world may be like if this sinus-palate “thing” should become common. Do we hunker down inside with Mr. Daniels in front of a T.V. set? Lose the daily walks? Hard to say. I started the day and a good part of this last week feeling atypically fine and right now I have every confidence “just fine” has returned (with a bit of whiskey coursing through the system) and tomorrow will be swell. I really do. But we'll see. Soon.
And for the moment?
I missed the Italian police procedural that plays at six, so I'll watch the program when it repeats at nine, get to bed well after ten. Feeling just fine now, thank you, three-quarters of a sheet to the wind.