I Can Find
Saturday. More of Ms. Klein's book last night, to sleep after ten, but not all that long after ten. I don't think.
Anyway, up with the alarm to head off to breakfast on another clear going to be a hot sunny day, the temperature not breaking until nine this evening it says the weather site. I left the sliding balcony door and bedroom windows wide open all night, so it's reasonably cool in here at the moment, but that will change. Close that door, close those windows, close those drapes and trap the now cool air inside.
I did park the car pointed toward the supermarket this morning, but decided against going (again) right at the last minute as I left. What to buy? Cottage cheese? I no longer need pasta, don't buy clam sauce anymore (since I've discovered Amazon, enemy of authors, publishers and now supermarket chains) and, well, the head has changed. Hard to say why.
Later. A bus downtown at ten to avoid the heat while picking up a prescription refill, waiting in line for over fifteen minutes behind two customers who were better at talking than understanding what was being said. Yes, snarky, and I had a little conversation with myself about impatience while in line. I did miss the bus by two minutes, watched it pass as I was leaving, but then I'd been thinking of staying for coffee and a pastry anyway, so why the fuss?
A walk to the bagel shop in the City Center to find another line, right after having spent so much time in the pharmacy line, and so out their door and on to Peet's where there were only two people in line, but the one person behind the counter giving interminable instructions to another person behind the counter (something about the elevator, turn left, turn right). Too much time in too many lines and so a continued conversation with self about cranky old men, brains that react without thinking while heading on up Broadway to Grand to wait on the bus.
Off the bus at the 7-11 look-alike for a pint of strawberry ice cream and two one liter bottles of diet Coke, passing the construction site on the way home. Hmm. Strawberry ice cream for lunch. Feel better already. Got home just as the temperature was beginning to get unpleasant, but the open windows and doors last night had kept the apartment habitably cool. Sitting in front of the fan now at the computer. We'll work on those construction web pages for the rest of the day and stay inside.
Later still. Two o'clock, ninety-one degrees, thirty-nine percent humidity. Not bad, haven't opened the drapes, thinking it better to keep them closed until they're no longer in the direct sun. We'll continue to hide inside, continue to work on the construction site pages, continue to wonder it they're worth the effort.
I do believe they've evolved over time. The first photographs were just to show what they'd cleared, what they'd started. The later ones are taken with some thought to include people when possible in the pictures. We're constant, but not fanatical about photography. We do notice, though, when we're shooting crap. We do.
More construction site pages feeling good about the task. Always a good sign when the drudge work isn't drudge work, probably a sign you're doing something you should be doing, something you like.
Playing some of the old records. I no longer play the original l.p.'s all that much, but playing them at all (and enjoying them as I'm working here at the computer) is another good sign, if only in doing something I once liked the way I liked it then, instead of wondering out loud why I've let them all go by the wayside.
Your “not listening much anymore” goes back decades.
It does. I've always figured that's another sign of age, something noted in family and friends. Then again, no reason you can't find your head in the right place and go back if only briefly for a visit. As I'm doing this day, this afternoon in Oakland.
Evening. There's a Castro Street Festival tomorrow in San Francisco. I photographed it in 2010, but haven't photographed it since. Stumbled across the fact it's running tomorrow through dumb luck. I suspect I'll go, although I don't remember how you get from BART to Castro, which trolley line you need to catch. Still, might be nice to do a better job than I did on those 2010 photographs.
To bed early, nothing on television that I can find.