Friday. A clear, very bright morning, this first morning in July, the long weekend ahead. A couple who lives a floor up from mine was packing luggage into their car to attend some kind of Burning Man precursor event out in the wilderness, as I got into my own car heading for breakfast, so people have plans in gear. One of the waitresses mentioned she was taking her sons to Santa Cruz, as they needed to “get out of the house”. She works seven days a week raising two sons and they needed a break.

So what's now ahead? The Art Murmur this evening, I'm up for that. Guitar practice in all its various forms talked to death here at great length, certainly, maybe something photogenic in these three days to come. One hopes. None of the usual suspects can afford to pay for fireworks this Fourth, Oakland cancelled their annual show two years ago, nothing to temp me in the few places out there that are left. They do have firework displays scheduled, but too far from home.

Oh, and the laundry. I should do the laundry today if only to get it done. I have more than enough clothes to last through both the weekend and the week beyond, but today would be a sensible day to get it done. Except I won't. Don't have to ask myself more than once.

Later. I walk out the door and down toward the bus stop noticing the smart phone said a bus was due in two minutes. Do I want to go downtown? We are walking into an obvious Kismet moment, heading out the door just as a bus is due. Ah, it's July 1st, I need a new (senior) bus pass and so I am soon on a bus heading downtown.

Walking back toward Broadway alongside an older fellow who'd been waiting in line at the transit office, he mentioned the weather was nice - yes it was, no doubt about it, I know my repartee - and this was something he paid more attention to now that he was getting old.

I commiserated, mentioning I now tended to ask, when something came up with the health, if it was a passing thing or something more permanent and he laughed - indeed, indeed - he'd been having similar thoughts himself. Of course he was older and more experienced with such than I, having been born in 1949. Oh? Well, I was born in '43. You're forty-three? No, I was born in 1943.

It's obvious to everyone I'm not forty-three, haven't been for twenty-five years, but interesting to hear. Still, I figured he probably thought me to be in my late fifties, the idea of forty-three taking him aback for a moment. I'm sixty-eight, maybe look like a youngster of sixty-five, but I don't have a problem with such when there's no other choice. I bitch about some of the symptoms, of course, nothing wrong with that. An interesting chance conversation, though, out on the sidewalk.

A walk farther down Broadway and on to Grand back home, stopping to have a cup of coffee and a small cake-like thing with poppy seeds at the café next to the big new Catholic church at Harrison and Grand and taking a couple of pictures if only because I hadn't used the camera yet.

Passing by the lake I photographed the cormorants standing all in a line drying their feathers in the sun, a photograph I've taken too many times. Still, when it comes to selecting, say, a representative half dozen one day, maybe one of these will make the grade so we keep on doing it.

Home now at noon, the guitar sitting untouched on its stand. We're going to get that hour in playing along with Lennon's Imagine, yes we are, at least a solid hour as we did indeed yesterday after much cajoling.

For someone who says he's into practicing, you seem to be showing some strain.

I'm thinking all this is a part of the process. I'm at a point where I'm making another step, learning a set of techniques that will get me closer to being a player, and it can be hard. Somewhat hard. At times. And I fight it. Now and again. Right now more now than again. Or something like that. Hup!

Later still. A nice day, yes, but I was tired through most of it. Every now and then you have them. I lay down for about an hour in the early afternoon, got up and played the guitar and then lay down for another hour, it now being close to six. I've had them before, no rhyme or reason to them, nothing in the way of predictive behavior before they arrive, just now and then you're tired. I'm tired. The Art Murmur is starting soon. Let us see what happens.

Evening. Walking through the Art Murmur early this evening I was thinking I've probably seen enough of these. Some of the work on display was interesting, I learned there was an Oakland Street Photography club, something I hadn't been aware of, but otherwise I was probably the wrong demographic in the wrong part of town. The area along Broadway has some nice upscale restaurants that were filling as I passed, but not the sort of thing I wanted to visit on my own dragging ass.

So a bus back to the apartment making a detour by the sushi place, finding they had a seat available at the bar. I was thinking did I want to do this and decided, if a comfortable seat were available (yes, there was a line) I'd partake, otherwise I'd walk up the hill and call it a day.

I was tired, but the two naps earlier had provided a second wind. Still, the day drawing to an end, I'd had thoughts of what in the hell am I doing out walking around with a camera this time of the evening? I've done this before. And before that. Introspection of a familiar kind. We'll see how we feel in the morning with a new day ahead.

You probably need to meet some people, change you're ways, visit some of those restaurants, skip the kids being kids down the block.

We'll think about that tomorrow with a new day ahead. As I said.