In A Flash
Breakfast at the usual cafe, read the paper, walk home, feel the walls closing in, take the bus downtown, take BART to Berkeley, walk up University to Telegraph, walk down Telegraph, check out the photography books at Moe's, catch another bus to Oakland, walk through the Chinese Cultural Center to get an ice cream cone, notice the long line of people waiting to get an ice cream cone and bail, catch a cup of coffee and a jazz session at The Bulldog Cafe, catch another bus back home.
A bus-walk-BART variation on the male animals's get in your car - kick start your motorcycle and drive routine. I have walked, however, enough times along Telegraph. A good lunch at a pasta restaurant across from Tower Records, though, a "place your order at the counter and pour your own soft drink" kind of a fast food place, but a very good Chicken Piccata lunch for less than eight bucks fast food place. I have no trouble imagining another Chicken Piccata, there are not enough good Chicken Piccata's in this world, but I have more trouble imagining another walk down Telegraph again.
I've lived in this Bay Area a long time and I've walked down Telegraph many times over these last thirty-five years and maybe I've seen as much of Telegraph Avenue as I need to see. Maybe I've walked through Oakland as many times as I need to walk through Oakland; maybe I need another city, another town, another reality. I don't know. Gets me back to buying a car: the need to find a new place; the need to get the hell out of here (and drive). I'm too comfortable. I'm too stale. Reminds me of my life as a teenager in the suburbs of New York City. For me, life in the suburbs was a nightmare, a nightmare I don't want to voluntarily repeat.
Are we going haywire here late on a Sunday afternoon?
It's a part of this rut I'm in. The Sunday afternoon introspection. Ms. Emmy is out on the balcony intently watching the pigeons who've decided to nest somewhere up on the balcony above. I think the apartment above is empty at the moment. I hope the new tenants like nesting pigeons. Ms. Emmy likes pigeons. No introspection necessary. She understands what pigeons are about.
There is not enough time in a day and certainly not enough time in a weekend. When did that happen? Weekends and years? They pass in a flash.