Many things to do today, wondering how many I'm going to get done. Simple things, necessary things and I'm sitting here, feeling reasonably good, no down thoughts, but then not a lot in the way of up thoughts either. Well, what do I mean by that? Up thoughts? No gas in the tank? Not sure. I've felt this way now for what is perhaps years: not bad, days are interesting, but no ambition to push this or push that. I'm not sure that's altogether bad at my age. When you're young and have things to accomplish, well, you need to get off your ass and get them done. I suppose. Cover the mortgage. Send the kids through school. Try to keep your art and life on track. Write a journal. Take a picture. Pet your cat. Paddle the oceans in a kayak.

Later. A slight break in the ennui in that I had the car washed and gassed in preparation for the Bisbee trip. Wouldn't want to arrive in L.A. in other than a clean short. Crapped out on adding a small detour to pick up needed cat food, which means I'll have to do it later, but this lack of ambition on my part didn't surprise me very much.

Later still. I mentioned I learned yesterday that a friend has been barely hanging onto life in a San Francisco hospital since last Saturday. We've remained in touch, but not gotten together these last several years - we had a long talk at the Rip Off Press anniversary party in San Francisco this summer - but I'm realizing, after hearing of his condition, that it's bringing up all kinds of unsettling stuff this afternoon from those San Francisco days in the 70's. That time in my life was turbulent - you might not think I know anything about turbulent from the snooze I've been describing here - and in the past these “feelings” have been triggered occasionally when listening to the music that was so important to us then. Today it's more direct, more potent, as it should, I suppose. Hang in there Wilson.