I'm one of those people who find they can't arrive late to an appointment and I've had to learn to discipline myself so as not to arrive too early at an affair, not to be the first person to arrive and freak out the people hosting the event/party. Still, six minutes is no big deal, not with my neurologist anyway, who was running his usual forty-five minutes late.

A good session, though. The MRI was clean, the neurologist commenting my brain was clearer of the small occlusions that show up as points on the scan than 98% of people he's seen and he wished his own were as good. Nice to hear, but I'm guessing that's not going to do you much good when the truck you didn't see flips you off the bridge or the just in from Rio virus finds and settles in your lungs. Or something similar. Anyway, another year before I see him again, so that's good, no more trips to Menlo Park for a while. Free from fear of other than trucks (that you missed seeing on the bridge) and hitch hikers from South America.

It's noon, I'm home, the drive back was a good thirty minutes shorter than the drive down (I believe I mentioned the traffic) and I think I'll take a quick nap and decide where it goes from here. A productive morning, I guess, except for the drive.

Later. Not tired, not whatever, but I've had the ambition of a snail (not to cast aspersions on snails). Vegetating in front of the computer. No guitar. No nothing. Yet again out of gas but otherwise feeling reasonably good. Does that make any sense? Am I depressed? In the winter blahs? Showing a lack of spine? Of sense?

Evening. One or two tries at a Netflix movie. I subscribe to the thing, might as well use it. Dipped into three movies I that I'd started in the near past and managed but a few more additional minutes with each. Again. I'm not so good with movies anymore, not that good with the one or two things I still will watch on television.

Sounds like you're out of gas.

The car after this morning's trip is out of gas (which I need to take care of tomorrow morning).