With A Guitar
Sunday. Got to bed early last night and did in fact read an interesting Political Science article in the current New Yorker that changed my understanding of some of the current political arguments. Which is good. A little different perspective, reminds us of how little we suspect, let alone know about the world.
Watched the beginning of yet another Netflix movie and then bailing before ten. Up with the alarm without particular effort to head off to breakfast on a sunny morning. Life is good. As it always was and is, really, given the alternative. Doesn't stop us from going on and on about what is essentially the trivial stuff.
Later. A brief walk over to the lake to get out into the air, noting the waves of birds on the lake that were rearranging themselves in groups of fifty to a hundred, moving from one side of the lake to the other. Haven't seen this before, but perhaps it's common. I seemed to be the only person who was paying attention of the large number of people who were walking the perimeter.
None of the pictures really show what I was perceiving. The wrong distance, the wrong position, the wrong lens to properly document it, but these things happen. More often than we'd like them to happen, but still, a nice morning, somewhat hungry, but no thought yet to go anywhere for lunch. Fine. Time will take care of it.
Later still. Packaged one of the cameras to send to my sister who, for the last two or three years, has been taking pictures as avidly, perhaps even more avidly, than I. Younger, maybe, more energy. Crazy to sit on a camera, a perfectly good camera, that I never use when my sister could make so much better use of it. So good.
Of course packaging it up meant tracking down the original box and packing materials - rearranging two closets in the effort - finally finding (most of ) the bits and pieces before lying down to recover.
Not a difficult task in the steps required, but it tuckered me out, took longer than I thought and has made me cringe at the amount of absolute junk I found in this apartment. Computer cables stacked by the box that I no longer have any idea of what they do or why they're here. Yes, I could figure it out, but I'm never going to find the need or make the effort.
A new something to mumble about?
I've been thinking of at least getting some of the things that should be saved arranged so they don't get thrown out when I'm gone. One or two pieces of memorabilia that would have some meaning or history to others if they but knew where they were and who to contact. Just the idea is tiring. Was today.
A walk later over to the burger drive-in to pick up a steak sandwich, leaving with the paper bag in hand and a camera over the shoulder, when I saw these two in the distance. The dog didn't seem to be interested in the geese really, more just keeping up, and the geese, although they were moving away, really didn't seem all that concerned. So, juggle the sandwich bag in the left hand and move the camera to the right hand to snap a couple of pictures. I like the expression on the youngster.
Ate the sandwich when I got home. Went down reasonably easily, although I was thinking I'd had more than enough with a queasy feeling in the stomach before it was finished.
Evening. Stumbled across a program on PBS about ducks and learned for the first time why all the preening, washing, rubbing behavior I was seeing was about. Duh. OK, it takes us slower ones more time to come around. And they can't fly when they're moulting. Didn't know that. All those geese moulting along the lake in the summer now makes more sense.
But now you're an expert.
Now I know something about moulting, preening, rubbing and washing. I suspect there's more.
Nothing I want to watch on television. The PBS stations are fund raising and I'm not much into what they say and run in fund raising mode. Haven't managed to wrap my head around Downton Abbey either, which is probably a defect in character if not a defect in the genes. So much of what I once watched with at least some interest now seems to drive me to French detectives and Swedish serial killers. There are probably psychoanalysts out there who specialize in the problem.
To bed early again. I have been tired, the head doubling in weight and looking for a pillow for half the day. Feels like we're coming down from a long party weekend rather than a sequestered two days spent in front of a computer and short sessions with a guitar.