Saturday. Up with the alarm having gotten to bed at a decent hour, to breakfast and back reminding myself not to order one of the larger breakfasts again: too much to eat (best not to leave any of it uneaten because of the starving children in “fill in the blank”). It was always China when I was very young, but ordering less for breakfast would at least divert the balance to those who really need it. That and a donation or two to one of the food charities. An email to a political representative. A letter to an editor. Mumble.

Where'd that come from?

Too much to eat this morning. It fogs the brain. So many things to fog the brain anymore, it's difficult to keep track, makes you write stuff like that. Particularly here with an overcast fogged brain in Oakland.

But back to some semblance of sense. It's eight in the morning, the day ahead, the attitude good, the sky overcast. I really would like to go out and do something that results in pictures today, we've been dogging it these last few weeks, these last few lives, but another part of me isn't convinced this will happen. Today, at least. Or tomorrow.

I suspect I'm going through one of these interminable changes you read about. A garden variety change, nothing spectacular, just one of those times when old connections are erased and you start anew to start afresh and remake the same mistakes. Perhaps we're always on the verge of a change of some kind, part of the human condition, but I seem to be dogging it and stewing. Another aspect of the human condition or an aspect dominant in the tired and never quite committed? The complainers? The old farts with too much time on their hands? Some of whom keep journals?

Bitch, bitch; moan, moan. And groan. Put a sock in it.

Was it ever thus? Mostly I seem to remember keeping my mouth shut and not thinking about any of it overly much when I was younger. Faulty memory?

Faulty something.

Later. A walk around and about heading for the ATM passing the farmer's market going full tilt across from the theater, taking a single picture. What the hell, we've done this before, no complaints.

Leaving the building I ran into a crew moving the furniture out of one of the apartments. Hmm. A one bedroom or a two? And if it's a two, how much does a two bedroom cost these days in sunny Oakland? Best not to think such thoughts, ask such questions, I'm sure the answer would put it out of my mind, but moving up one floor is less daunting that moving halfway across the city. Well, I know the manager well, pretty soon I'll be able to tell.

Otherwise tune the guitar and play for a while. I took a brief nap earlier before setting out, no sleep really, just a drift into the haze while listening to the news on the radio. Depressing the news on the radio. The impact of a mini-depression is felt across the board, I guess, spreading the craziness right up and through the government. The Europeans aren't that far behind. Every argument is a straw man for something else. Up means down, wrong means right, good is bad and don't ask about the problems we've created in the Middle East. Didn't some Englishman write a book about all this, something about endless war and a Big Brother? I'll stop right here. I will.

Right, the guitar. Tune the guitar, check the sound, play the chords, zone out, it's not even noon.

Later still. I guess the motor has finally started. All the snap, crackle and popping above seem to have dissipated. A walk along the lake again heading to have lunch at the usual place, passing this fellow in the colonnade by the lake. Always worth a listen and a picture.

On to the farmer's market where a band of older guys (every bit as old as I) with long grey hair were playing old Beatles and Grateful Dead songs. I naturally took a picture of the guitar player. On to the corner where the Women In Black and the Support Israel people were facing one another across the street as they have for these so many weekends past. A sunny day, at least, something to be thankful for, given all the dark clouds that exist out there.

Sitting down to lunch I realized I wasn't wearing my sun glasses. I'd left the house and walked the half mile, shooting the occasional picture, and never noticed I'd left them behind. This didn't make sense so I sat there for a minute and ran through my route. I hadn't stopped anywhere where I might have put them down. I reached up to see that they weren't sitting on my nose.

You may think that idiotic, but I've done that in the past and found them. Of course the brain was a bit fuzzier at such times and the move but the automatic move of the moment. A somewhat confused moment. But yes, I'd left them behind, the bright sun not a problem, not that it's ever been a problem for me in the past. This wearing of sun glasses obviously has its other than utilitarian aspects. You wear them because...?

So we're back in what is now the mid-afternoon. I did tune the guitar earlier (takes about a minute or two) and I did play for about half an hour. Well, fifteen minutes anyway. We've reached the place in the day, deep in the middle of our routine, where it's time to practice and I notice the brain has shifted firmly into its “my that's a good idea” mode. Doesn't seem to work in the mornings for other than, again, half an hour, sometimes longer, but when the later afternoon and evening arrive it's almost impossible to not pick it up and play. No complaints, you understand, just noting the schedule.

Evening. I'm thinking sushi and sake, but I'm holding back. They fill up rather quickly in the evenings and after about six you can't get a seat, so if I put it off for an hour, now less than an hour, I'm safe.