A funky last two days. Yesterday, some grocery shopping, breakfast, a bus ride downtown to have lunch. Today, breakfast at home (having purchased all that cereal), a walk down the way to get a paper, another bus ride downtown for lunch this time fortuitously bumping into people from the office on their way to a burger, a pleasant hour, a ride back home, a nap, a look at the computer, another nap. This damned thing I've got is still there. It makes me wonder.
So, other than that (I know, I talked about not talking, but I'm thinking about it and it just comes out), other than that I'm up for tomorrow. I have two, count 'em two Stouffer's turkey dinners in the freezer. One would be enough, but it is, after all, Thanksgiving. I'm pumped.
I've always taken pleasure in solitary Thanksgivings. A good excuse to putter around cooking up something special, the TV on with whatever sports event (I don't care, really. Football, a car race, something other than basketball.). The things I do on any given weekend, in fact, but supercharged. The streets more empty than usual, a walk among the usual haunts, maybe take in a movie. You're not supposed to feel this way, I understand that, but I always have in retrospect. At my age retrospect is a vast and fertile territory. The loner, the photographer, the scribbler in a journal. That's sorta true. In retrospect.