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Last weekend in Berkeley.
November 16th, 1999

Other Days Are Approaching
Rained today, but not enough to get wet walking home. The big golf umbrella works fine unless the wind is blowing in which case it's useless and I'm fucked. No wind tonight, but it will come, and then, what the hell, I'm waterproof. So much for walking in winter. I packed the Nikon in a zip lock freezer bag before putting it in the rucksack. Same with the little digital camera. Dark, raining, plenty of people on the street scurrying for cover. You can feel the holidays. Thanksgiving. Four days to putter around the apartment. Take naps. Watch movies. Play music.

I realize how useful this program of writing almost daily and shooting pictures has been in giving me an outside focus. Many of the things I made important in past lives and jobs just don't seem to matter very much as long as I have these photographs to shoot and this journal to write. Curious. It doesn't matter as much where I'm working or what I'm doing as long as I continue with this project, which, given time, might even explain itself. Then again, maybe not. Not sure it matters. It does go up and down. Not shooting anything worth a shit at the moment and worse, I'm not following up when I get something that looks half right, not going back and shooting it again. Lazy. But that's OK. I'm going with lazy for now. Other days are approaching.

Mr. Wuss has an appointment for a sonogram Monday morning. I've cheated on occasion and let OATS at lunch. him eat some dry cat food in addition to the sani-flush from the vet. A small hand full from the bag on the counter and then only when he looks seriously weirded out, the thought passing through his mind perhaps that he is locked up inside this apartment dependent on me for his daily bread and I, dependable to whatever degree I've been in the past, seem to have slipped ever so quickly into a torture your little cat routine that involves horrible stuff that comes from a can and tastes like, well, I don't know. There is no way he can write a letter to his congressman, no way he could even hope for help if he could. The cat lobby is, after all, just a cat lobby. They don't have a street address or a checking account. I hope the sonogram finds the crystals are gone and I hope the diet he must maintain thereafter is edible.

The banner photograph was taken outside of a theater in Berkeley. The second photographs shows two OATS who were leading us to lunch on our soul food adventure on Friday.