Sunday. Note to self: you are buying things. Why are you buying things? Do you need these things? I believe you don't. We'll end this here, but if you ever come back and read this entry, you'll know you were warned. Nicely, I might add.
Up this morning just after seven, to breakfast and the papers, back now at eight thirty: the sky overcast, the forecast “cloudy”, the day ahead. A Sunday ahead. Thanksgiving coming. We seem to have entered holiday central, here, in the good old American Dream. What is The American Dream these days? Does anyone write about it, talk about it, use it as a metaphor? Hunter Thompson was the last one I remember. Searching for it in a desert, I seem to recall, an American desert at least.
But let's let that lie. We are in a good mood this morning. I had the last half of that bottle of sake last night, about the right amount, makes the evening pleasant and the morning OK. A slight fuzziness I associate with alcohol when I awoke, but nothing to think about as it evaporated in fifteen minutes. Anything that evaporates in fifteen minutes doesn't count as a transgression in my book. Robert's fifteen minute rule. No blame. Bleeding to death in say fifteen minutes is an exception to the rule. I don't want to have you think I'm overly pedantic. Not here in Oakland.
We are babbling.
We are. I wonder not why - it feels good to babble - but to what effect? Does the good stuff get covered up by giving into your babble? Or is there any good stuff to cover up? If there isn't, do what's fun, don't fret.
What was that little blurb about spending money you started this with?
Last night, online, an urge to acquire a shooting jacket that will fit my now slimmer frame and an urge to acquire an additional photo bag I've told myself I've needed now for some time matching the set I already have; something to take the remaining lighting components, various left over lenses and such to keep them safe. Sake, I think, may encourage this kind of behavior. So these two items will be on the way next week, something less than sensible, not only here in Oakland, but anywhere out there in The American Dream.
The American Dream encourages every kind of excess.
Yes it does, but I'm too old for repetition, to be proving it to myself or anyone else. Dreaming is dreaming, the credit card bill comes when you're awake. Well, something like that, but more articulate, better stated, less public, more circumspect.
Later. A bus downtown, a walk then to Jack London Square to tour the farmer's market, a group of youngsters holding forth on the bandstand. A walk back then, passing a panhandler who called out “take my picture”, the result out of focus, not sure why.
A cup of coffee out on the patio in front of Peet's, the sky overcast, the temperature in the fifties. A conversation with a woman who sat down at a table next to me, she another amateur photographer carrying her Canon 35mm film camera in her shoulder bag, a darkroom addict just in from Washington DC to attend a Salsa seminar of some kind next door at the Marriott. OK. Good. Her companion gave me a grumpy look when she came out carrying their coffee, but again good, no complaints.
A walk back on the final leg to the apartment, trying one or two pictures just to see if and how they'd turn out, not sure what I was seeing in them then, not sure what I'm seeing in them now, but progress of a sort I think. I like the church and the sky, not sure why. The lady in front of me, her dog under her arm, needing a longer lens to make that obvious. No complaints.
Meeting Mr. E and Mr. H in San Francisco later at six to take in a movie, something Mr. E and I talked about at Roy's Friday night. When's the last time I've been to a movie? I can't even get myself to sit down and watch them on DVD. Still, again, no complaints. Bringing up Robert is, as I've mentioned, a full time proposition. Too bad I've never had the time. Then again, no complaints.