Sunday. We do have our little self destructive urges, do we not? I managed to stay up to watch that weekend Korean historical soap last night, all the way through to eleven PM, all the painful way through the sobbing and lamenting of the one prince's death at the hands of bad guys. Nothing wrong with grief brought on by tragedy, but this was played out for an hour, loving played out for an hour by writers and directors who aren't looking to me for an audience.
But there you were watching, were you not?
I was wide awake, it was the only thing on and there are elements in these things that will tweak my interest. Why couldn't I develop normal urges and hobbies at my old age? Collecting bugs or something?
Still, up without the alarm at seven, to breakfast and back by nine, the day ahead. The Rockridge Out and About Festival coming up starting at noon, an easy enough trip on BART, as the Rockridge BART station itself sits right in the middle of the festival, having done this festival in the past. I lived in Rockridge when I first came to Oakland, not hard to find, even for us old guys.
You're beating that “old guy” thing to death.
More like it's beating me, but then you're right, no restraint here anymore I'm afraid, the belfry is adding more bats.
Later. Somewhat over an hour's nap, which is good. After last night I suspect it will allow the rest of the day to roll right along, hup-hup and all that. Now, if it would still let get to sleep at a decent hour tonight all will be right.
You've forgotten that damned soap of yours runs again this evening?
Well, they have gotten through the grieving for the murdered prince part and will now double down on revenge and killing. A standard plot line of course, perfectly familiar to the male end of the spectrum, but there are all kinds of political connections and shenanigans going on that will make the retribution phase more interesting. That prime minister, for example? How's he going to come out of this?
Best you worry instead about getting to sleep on Monday night. Sunday is hopeless as your brain is obviously fried.
Later still. A bus to BART and then BART to Rockridge to descend the escalator into the middle of the Out and About Festival along College Avenue, an area I once lived in and still get to now and again.
And I walked the length of the thing on each side of the street taking the odd photograph, thinking my heart or perhaps my eye was not really in it. Not sure why, although one or two of the images seem to have turned out. Still, good exercise if nothing else.
Back on BART to try a second time to get cash out of the Bank of the West ATM at their branch along Broadway only to get the same message I'd gotten when I'd tried it going in, that it was temporarily out of service. Which means they'd run out of cash or their system was down - maintenance, maybe - but I suspect they'd run out of cash or it wouldn't have allowed me to enter into the account. I suspect they'd have taken a deposit without a peep.
Which means I didn't buy that little Day of the Dead ceramic skull/t-light candle holder I liked. Which is probably for the best. A small one, one making its presence among many wouldn't be too gauche (if a ceramic skull can be said to be lacking in social amenities).
Well, I knew this was coming when I switched banks. Life will not end and my morning restaurant takes a debit card. So far that at least has worked wherever I've used it now. Oh, except that first time before they'd assigned me a pin and at that parking meter where I had to use the Wells Fargo card. Hmm.
So tired, home now sitting beside the fan, maybe another nap if the world doesn't settle down in a reasonable number of minutes. Some guitar, I think, go through the entire lesson a few times beginning to end. I have a habit of going over and over the parts that need work and don't do the assigned riffs (I'll call them riffs, short pieces of music much like popular song hooks) straight through. Which, it turns out, can make you stumble where with a little effort you wouldn't.
You do go on.
You think of these things. At least I do.
Evening. There seem to be enough photographs to make a section on artandlife. I wasn't expecting that and I'm going through my usual routine of asking myself if I'm “making excuses” in judging some marginal shots acceptable. Not that the bar is all that high. Still, we like to think it is in those moments when nobody's watching. Or listening. Or reading.