Friday. To bed at eleven and up at eight to walk, instead of drive, to the morning café for breakfast, catching a bus back that arrived just as I was leaving the café, to get home and do whatever I was in the mood to do to save yesterday's entry. But that's the norm around here anymore, attempted saves, might as well get used to them.
Friday the 13th, though. Given all the time I now have for introspection, I can ponder my relationship with the number. What are my thoughts when confronted with 13? They say hotels will skip 13 when they're numbering their floors, although I can't remember ever seeing it.
I assign a number to my photographs every day, starting with the month, the day and the year, followed by a two digit sequence beginning with 01, so later today I may number a photograph 07131213.jpg, the thirteenth photograph taken on this day. And I never skip the number 13. But I think about it. And if 13 happens to be the last day's photograph to be assigned a number? One through thirteen? No photograph fourteen? Wouldn't it be better in the scheme of things if there were a number 14, better yet a photograph number 15 to camouflage our 13 there in the middle? And the person, if there's a person, in the picture? Might it bring bad luck? For the subject? For me?
And so these thoughts do float through the mind, nothing overly obsessive, but thoughts that occur as we're fiddling along with the pictures, the question being: are my thoughts and reactions any different in kind or degree from thoughts had by others? I don't know. It's not something I've ever asked, maybe for reasons that are even more interesting.
We do babble.
We do, as we often do in the mornings. It's now close to eleven. A walk is in order. A bus ride somewhere, this Friday the 13th, here in lucky old Oakland.
Later. Cool out there, so a sweater and a light jacket as we headed out that second time (adding the sweater after returning home when the first bus didn't arrive) for the downtown because, well, I don't know because. I just set out the door, the mind saying “stay at home” and a disconnected body paid no attention.
The bus passed by a car turned over on its side on Broadway near Grand and I thought about getting off at the next stop to walk back and take pictures - a bit ghoulish - but I didn't budge. Fairly dramatic, a late model station wagon up on its side, two police cars parked in close by, people gawking, but whatever reason had gotten me onto the bus, it didn't want me getting off to take pictures. I'd say Kismet, fate, whatever, but I suspect it was sloth and maybe a touch of low blood pressure.
A walk through the City Center, a walk then over to the Rotunda building to have a caramel latte and something too sweet and sticky, a walk then out the door and straight back to the apartment. A picture as I was passing by a bus stop, attracted by the Psychic Readings sign, finding later that the older woman pointing her finger was the element that made whatever might be found in the picture, one or two others as the mood struck and the shutter snapped. Not great, but then, fun to take, none of them detracting from my favorable mood of the morning.
Yes the sinus, upper palate was aching, but a low level aching, nothing to get excited about, and I was happily off in my own little bubble, but still aware and nodding appropriately to people as I was passing. It's now two in the afternoon, the start of a long string of news programs I'm in the habit of listening to as they drone on in the background, watching them on T.V. when I'm playing the guitar, otherwise their talking heads invisible from where I sit at the computer. Not a bad way to finish out an afternoon. Hasn't been, anyway.
So then why bring it up?
I believe I mentioned all the time I now have on my hands for navel gazing earlier.
Evening. Inspector Soneri is Friday's Italian police procedural at six, and yes, I was watching. It has elements that make many of the others (Italian others) terminally dumb, but this one I'm able to handle. All the plots are more than off the wall, but that may say more about me (my tastes and one hopes not my sanity) than it does about Italian television.
Still, I played along on the guitar, spent time noodling around with the computer, had a cheese sandwich for dinner. A passing thought to head down the hill for sushi and sake as last night's sake doesn't seem to have had any repercussions. I guess I operate under the rationalization it's better to press down hard and clearly prove or disprove if they are the problem than to let it drag out forever.
Nothing more than a passing thought. We'll see if we don't get to bed early, get up with the alarm well rested. No nap today. I hadn't thought about that until just now. When was the last day I didn't lie down for a nap? Maybe one's life script, after a certain age, is written by Italian screen writers.
Because your first, say, sixty years made so much sense before the Italians took over?
I want to say they did, but quickly, without thinking.