Sunday. No internet connectivity, the phone company saying an outage, which is good as it means my old DSL modem hasn't failed (yet) and I don't have to wait for them to send me a current model. They're projecting it will be fixed by noon. I can wait until noon. Yes I can. Here in Oakland.
I've been juggling the times at which I take these half doses of blood pressure pills. I took a half last night, as the blood pressure was rising and then checked it again this morning clocking it at twenty points below normal. So I'll check later and see how it's progressing. So far so good, I guess. And yes, I'll talk with the medicos tomorrow, ask for suggestions. This wizard (they all say it's wizard) stuff they have me on seems a bit too wizard. Maybe go back to something older that's worked in the past and doesn't cause the world inside my head to sink when I get up after the latest pill kicks in. When I get up from the computer. Get up from a nap. Get up from the kitchen table.
You don't have a kitchen table.
I've barely got a kitchen. When was the last time I used the oven?
Breakfast at the usual place, the sky clear, the day ahead looking not altogether unwholesome. Mr. Wilson, from reports I'm getting, is conscious and answering questions, albeit slowly and with effort as he has, indeed, sustained brain damage. He is finally out of the ICU, so I'm thinking of driving over to San Francisco to visit him or, if he's not taking visitors, talk with Ms. C and whomever else may be there to see what's going on. I'm not sure of the ethics or the manners of something like this. The man is in trouble and those closest to him are there doing everything they can. They don't need well meaning old friends, no matter how well meaning, getting in the way of his recovery. Or am I using this as an excuse not to drive to the hospital? Does it matter? Do chipmunks grow whiskers? Questions such as these run together as you get older.
The price of gas at the station across the street from my café was $2.25 a gallon when I entered and $2.17 when I returned to my car, eight cents in the matter of an hour. Sunday morning excitement! Well, I'm not sure when they make their changes as I've seen it drop and rise at odd times throughout the day on the orders from, one assumes, the powers that be at Gasoline Central. Changing it over breakfast is as good as lunch, one would suspect. Now, how to shoot that picture of the station behind the little gas price logo above in a way that's more interesting?
Photographic innovation at eight in the morning, I'm surprised I'm able to read the paper. Then again I wonder what a gas station sign might look like in the infrared? My now obsolete Nikon D2h will evidently shoot infrared with the addition of a lens filter, no need to have the camera itself otherwise modified. My, my. Suddenly an obsolete camera becomes useful again with the purchase of a piece of equipment. A way to spend more money on photography without necessarily doing any photography: it's so American it's wonderful.