Who's Obsessing?
Thursday. Bright sun, the temperature nice. Not quite light jacket weather, but a light cool breeze in the shade that allows you to fake it. A good week, this week.
You said you'd run more pictures of Ms. Emmy. Where are they?
One of these days. Pictures of Emmy are right up there on the shelf next to the fifteen undeveloped rolls of black and white. They will be developed, Emmy will have a photo session, a session that's more than a couple of shots taken lying on my back in bed. I've done that. Hard to focus when you're flat on your back in bed, Emmy not understanding the concept.
Watched a program on public TV this evening. I've been following the bird flu problems breaking out in China and Cambodia and Vietnam these last two or three years, but I hadn't heard it spelled out as plainly as it was this evening. It's coming, maybe not this year, but next year or the year following and it will kill a lot of people just as the 1918 flu pandemic killed a lot (as in tens of millions) of people. Old people and young people, mostly, the hundred or so human cases they've identified to date show a 50% mortality rate.
Which means?
Which means I'm going to be pissed if I kick off from bird flu in another year or two like an idiot working right up until the last minute.
So you're going to retire tomorrow and do what? Shoot more photographs?
Hell no. Nobody believes they're going to die, nobody believes they won't starve to death, either, when they're, I don't know, 80: out of money, Social Security bankrupt and George Bush III in office.
Then why write about it?
I'm a news junkie. I once thought of becoming a newspaper reporter. I can't lay off.
Friday. Drinks after work with the usual crew, but not so many that I'll have to skip consciousness tomorrow. Carnaval this weekend, the parade on Sunday. Don't know if they're having the Carijama parade here in Oakland Monday, but I'll find out. A three day weekend, the head in pretty good shape, the attitude better. I'm living in the same circumscribed, grey walled box I've inhabited these last few years, no kidding myself about that, but these last two weeks feel better: an analogy to how you feel - not quite, but close to how you feel - sleeping between freshly laundered sheets.
Better sheets than a shroud.
Now who's obsessing?
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