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The What It Means To Live in Berkeley parade.
October 2nd, 1999

Twitching and Dreaming
I slept in this morning, so the computer clock says 8:20. My balcony door is open and someone out back is playing a banjo and singing. Not a problem sitting here awake after a bath, but I wonder what my still in bed neighbors think? The musicians I once knew never got up before noon on a Saturday (none of us got up before noon on a Saturday) so this guy isn't a musician. I think it was Caruso who said he couldn't even spit before twelve. Obviously this guy isn't worried about waking up his neighbors and I'm not altogether unsympathetic, but more in an abstract don't get in my face sense, you understand: Life shouldn't be so damned predictable. Hmmm. I'd shoot him, but my guns are still packed and it's time for breakfast.

Later in the afternoon. Now it's a woman singing scales. I wonder if she knows The What It Means to Live in Berkeley parade. the banjo player? I've decided I rather like having a banjo player and an opera singer living in back as their sound just floats in nice and polite and not very loud. They're neighbors, but a good three neighbors distant. Everyone else is so quiet and polite, their back balconies so carefully planted and trimmed. Makes me nervous. I inherited five potted plants from the former tenant when I moved in, four of them as dead as dead gets and one filthy little creeper all yellow, dried up and dying. Plus my house warming catnip plant from MSW, of course. I've been watering the yellow creeper and it's better. The catnip is considering its new life here in Oakland and although some of the leaves at the center have turned yellow, it looks OK. I think. I'm feeding it little seed like things MSW calls "plant steroids". I keep it balanced on the railing overlooking my downstairs neighbors. One good puff of wind and it's going to need all the steroids it can get. Mr. Wuss does not appear to be aware of its existence.

I can feel winter coming. This place has a half comfortable hole up for the winter feeling, the computer hooked to the Internet, the fireplace in the corner, the books up on their shelves, the recuperating cat sleeping on his chair, twitching and dreaming.

The photographs were taken at the "What It Means To Live in Berkeley" parade.