You're Asking Me
Thursday. Up again at five-thirty. Having gotten to bed relatively early last night, I still found the need to take an hour's nap this afternoon before heading out to meet some of the usual crew at Roy's here in Oakland. Oh, and I walked the short distance to the lake earlier to sit on a bench in the sun. Wouldn't want to skip my daily walk, well, watching other people walk. Getting old and grey creeps right up on you, ready or no: ho, ho, ho.
But then again the head is good, the attitude reasonable. I don't know about Roy's today, but I'm getting quite good about going out and not overdoing it, often remembering many of the words said and the places traveled the night before the morning after. Perhaps just a sign of the times: fussy about this, fussy about that, fussy about drinking; I was never fussy about getting my sack time. Not on this planet.
Later. Roy's was out of Guinness, but four IPA's and a hot dog later, home now, the evening seems on course. The funky headed-sinus thing smooths out after two beverages, any more is basically overkill, but then again the concept of more than two beverages as overkill goes through a transformation after actually consuming two beverages and the first two beverages this evening became two beverages or more, more settling comfortably at four. A good day, a seemingly short day for all that - breakfast early, sitting by the lake - not an ounce of ambition, yes, but ready for sleep and seeing how it may unravel in the morning.
Friday. Overcast, a bit cold, no complaints. Reminds me of Seattle. Breakfast at the usual place. Now what?
I do seem to have my mornings down. Wake up whenever, sometimes early, sometimes later as I did this morning after eight. Feed Ms. Emmy. Bathe. Get dressed. Pick up the papers from the doorstep and head to breakfast - walking if I'm feeling good, driving if I'm not - then back to the apartment after about an hour to check the Internet: sift through the various blogs and journals on my list, read my mail, tweak the journal, listen to the interviews on NPR if any of them strike my interest. And thus the morning is complete. I enjoy these mornings, very much, no thought to make a change. The afternoons? The afternoons are in flux.
Then again a man with his mornings set in cement may well need fluxation in his afternoons. “What do you do during your afternoons, Mr. Natural?” Fluxation, Mr. Foont. Fluxation will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no fluxation.”
You're mixing your quotes.
Mr. Natural is Fat Freddy in drag. Real wisdom was always delivered by Fat Freddy's Cat.
No one will understand that reference.
And those who will won't find it clever.
So, the mornings in place, the afternoons in flux, the evenings floating by on sake and wine. And whine. What else is true in this universe? My apartment is messy. So is my bedroom. (And my kitchen and my bathroom and the area where I keep my computer.) I mention it here. I've run pictures. It would take, I think, two or three afternoons to put it in shape and then maintenance would take a few hours a week. I have the hours, but I haven't been willing to spend them. Yet. But I'm writing about it here and encouraging myself to sit up and do something about it pretty quick. The journaler's shtick: all talk, no walk. That and a little sake will get you through my week of never ending responsibility and toil.
Oh, and how many of my friends have responsibilities that make my own trivial in comparison now that I've laid them out in brutal detail? All of them. Every one. I have it easy. I'm retired. I get up in the morning and have breakfast. I sit by the lake. I take pictures, but only when the mood strikes. I write this but I write without a gun to my head. I could stop tomorrow. I could stop today.