Saturday. It cleared up yesterday afternoon and this morning is bright, cool and sunny. I can now see the opposite wall of my living room. The floor to ceiling record shelves, nine hundred lp's, none of which I play anymore, are clearly visible. The massive antique stereo system reflects my image in its doors. I have some few CD's I play in the car and occasionally here in the apartment, but that's about it. How many hours did I spend playing music in my teens, twenties; thirties, forties? Teens through thirties were the big ones. Listening every day, most every night; sex and bronchial infection the primary reasons for not having something on the turntable. I would like to say there was a whole lot of sex and once a year, maybe, a bronchial infection, but that would only be half a truth, here in Oakland.
Dinner this evening with two of my fast living cousins and their kids (who are up from LA) in San Francisco at The Slanted Door in the Ferry Building, the first stop off BART coming under the Bay from Oakland. Good. An easy ride, a good dinner, back at a decent hour and no need to get up in the morning. Life works well when you don't have to set the clock, less well when you have a cat who doesn't need a clock to know when it's time for you to get out of bed and prepare her breakfast.
Later. The photos under the Sole Proprietor logo look surreal, the color something you'd see in a digital animation. But that's the way it looked earlier this evening: the browns, the lights. Downtown San Francisco, the skating rink surrounded and crowded: palm trees, lights, traffic, crowds, an artisan's marketplace set up on tables. You kid yourself thinking things become clearer as you gain experience when the reality is most things you thought you understood are but fictions set in fictional places made of colored glass and cement spheres; lines of light, for those who can see, edging the buildings.