A copy of Pynchon's Inherent Vice arrived yesterday along with Understanding Power - The Indispensable Chomsky, the one because in reading a review I had the thought I hadn't read any Pynchon in a while (forgetting, perhaps, the reason) and getting it was only a click and a couple of seconds; the other because of another review calling it the best description by leaps and bounds in laying out in Chomsky's own (edited) words his political philosophy and observations.

So I opened the one and then the other. Pynchon, I don't know, but as I said, it's been a while, I'll give him a chance, the odor of old hippies in the pages. Gravity's Rainbow was written a long time ago and it was just fine, the interim books, well, maybe I've forgotten. Chomsky, depressing to some degree given the current state of the world: naked corporate power accurately described at its less than sunny best. They say the truth shall set you free, but they don't say reading about it is necessarily a pleasure.

So you're still buying books.

Fewer than you might suspect. Fewer leading to fewer, I hope, if I don't find myself reading however many dull and deadly pages they may contain.

Dull and deadly?

I once went through them like a bird flying. Now, it's more like a dog paddling.

In the polluted pond.

Don't get me started.

Later. An hour's walk around the neighborhood, picking up another but smaller book envelope at the post office. A “rambling” really, not strong or purposeful enough to be called walking. Still, for an hour, exercise. Can't complain, the sky clear with a reasonably cool wind. T-shirt weather, yes, but comfortable t-shirt weather. We are not ungrateful, here in Oakland.

I'll call the computer shop tomorrow, see when the machine will be ready. Nikon will have the camera in hand by then and I'll hear from them whenever they've costed out what I've done, hard to say how long. So it's coming together as this week rolls on.