Friday. To bed and lights out by whenever it was, later than usual, but not all that much later. I don't think. Awakened at twenty after six to get up and walk to breakfast, the East Bay Times delivery guy appearing in his car just as I was turning the corner at the bottom of my hill. Ah, well. A bright sun and clear skies, they're saying, the temperature getting up into the mid sixties.
The plain waffle breakfast again as nothing else appealed, a walk then back home, passing by the road finishing machine I'd passed yesterday. From the looks of the 580 highway exit below the Lakeshore school, they were refinishing it yesterday and the machine looked like it had taken its part. I'd been impressed about its cleanliness yesterday and today it looked as if it had been, well, laying asphalt longer than any sensible machine should.
We're maybe a little too close to babbling here.
Again, nice morning, but I'm thinking more in terms of a nap than a walk.
Later. A bus downtown to the City Center where I went by the convenience store to pick up a box of Good & Plenty and eat it while sitting on a nearby bench. Pretty exciting for a Friday in Oakland.
Brown cow. A walk then to the bagel shop where I had a turkey and Swiss cheese bagel sandwich with coffee, getting up and walking up Broadway when finished thinking I'd take a picture or two of the construction site at the corner of 15th and Broadway and then, if a bus still wasn't due, walk on to Grand and home. A bus didn't come and so indeed I ended up walking all the way home, enough walking to say I've gotten in our exercise for the day. Hey.
Evening. Democracy Now!, of course, picking up on the parts I'd missed this morning. I must admit I don't really want to hear or know much more about our Mr. Trump. What would it have been like to grow up in a family with dynamics like that? Bless one's lucky stars.
Then again there's still a well examined/buried urge to have become a journalist during times like these. My particular approach-avoidance conflict. I did get my feet wet in the underground press back in the sixties and those experiences had a lasting effect. The old “what would I do if I were suddenly eighteen again and had those choices to make with these years of experience? Pursue a journalism career (back when there were such things)? If not, what else?
You're not showing a lot of promise in any of the writing trades with this journal.
As in “man riddled with bullets on East 17th Street while easting an ice cream bar” instead of “got to bed early, awoke later than I'd have liked”? Ah, well. We did manage to get in a walk this day.