I've not gone to the anti-war protest march in San Francisco, obviously, sitting here as I am at eleven in the morning, the hour it's scheduled to start. Yes, I feel a little funky, but I'm realizing the thought of catching a crowded BART train to travel under water and walk through a crowd shooting pictures is not an enticing thought no matter my condition. So. What does that mean for the rest of the day?
I've had breakfast at the usual place, passing the new just finished paved and planted park area the farmer's market has now moved into across from the Grand Lake theater. Looks nice. I didn't buy any peaches, but I stopped to look at the crowd, stopped again, but didn't buy a whole chicken from the roasted chicken truck parked at the curb, a line of large people waiting their turn to buy. That's not fair. Not all of them were large. I was overly large during the days I bought whole roasted chickens at the supermarket, taking them home to eat right up: skin, breasts, thighs and buttocks. On white bread with mayonnaise. A bottle of Miller Lite.
Are we wandering?
A bit. I walked down the way early this afternoon and bought a tuna fish sandwich (light tuna, you understand) and a Coke, walked further down beyond the entrance to Children's Fairyland and ate it sitting on a large rock just inside the park watching parents parade small children toward the entrance, all of them dressed in, well, fairy costumes. Is it because it's Children's Fairyland or it is because they are holding a Halloween event? Little synthetic pastel frocks with gossamer wings drooping down at back. Some bullets clip you neat and some bullets for whatever reason miss, thank you dear god. Mothers and fathers both, none of them looking particularly unhappy with their lot, no negative comments here on the folks who did their part (you understand). Did I want to walk downtown? No. Did I want to catch a bus (downtown)? No. Did I want to walk back to the apartment and write this? I guess.
I (the head) is pretty clear (at the moment). The head isn't aching. This is rare. The sinuses and the tops of my hands and wrists are tingling, but what else it new? A touch of numbness in the right leg this morning, but just a touch and then it left. This is good. I am sitting here wondering what in the hell I'm going to do with the rest of the day (and the rest of my life), but just wondering, you understand, nothing too strenuous. Something will come up. Or it won't. I'll manage.
Do we need a shrink? A drink?
I would think feeling better would lead to feeling better, but I guess it leads to getting on with where I left off.
And where did we leave off?
Thinking about growing old gracefully in both less and more exciting ways. Do you shoot more photographs? Do you write the Great American Novel (at the age of sixty)? Do you take up Tango dancing at a local old folks home? Maybe. I guess. Do I reinvent my interest in my work, one more whack in another field, one more "exciting" project? A photo shoot in the Arabian desert with the boys who make the news? Not. In an hallucination, maybe, a dream out of control. Something to do with images, though? Pictures? Computers? Stuffing envelopes?