A throwback from the past at the morning café. A young guy in his early thirties: thin, a long beard, carrying a backpack, a basket filled with clothes and a pair of shoes, a small suitcase and an Australian Didgeridoo in a scruffy cloth case. My first reaction as he came in was: someone who's been forced out on the street, but realized, after hearing him talk with the waitress, mention the Didgeridoo, he was a classic long haired rambler travelling through. He said he'd stayed with friends in San Francisco over the weekend and attended the Bluegrass festival, an Oregonian who's travelled the world over the years from India to Nevada City.

Reminded me of the underground river of people who travelled the world on thumbs and cheap tickets in the sixties and seventies looking for, well, something. What was happening in London, in Mumbai, in Austin, in New York City, L.A. and, of course, San Francisco? Sex, drugs and rock and roll. The counter culture restless and searching.

I knew more than a few, a distinct breed, people who'd be on a ship searching for Eldorado or Oz had they lived in the eighteenth century. I almost bought him breakfast, paying for it at the counter, letting the waitress tell him after I'd left. But I didn't. Not sure why. Not lack of imagination, but gumption. Well, maybe both. He didn't seem to be skimping, had all the toys, the iPod, the headphones. Because I'm short on money this week? Yeah, but not so short I couldn't pop for a breakfast, a gesture in a cool to not so caring world. But I digress, rationalizing, looking for credit, perhaps, for something I didn't do.

Later. Walking to the bus stop I reached into my pocket and realized I'd forgotten my front door keys. I've done this once before, left them on top of my dresser. Hard to do when everything else in my pocket - car keys, pen knife, coins - was taken from the same spot. I was rushed, yes, the bus was due, but forgetting your keys yet picking up everything else may be indicative of more interesting memory stumbles to follow.

A walk back to the apartment to ring the manager who turned out not to be in. OK. A walk then to catch the next bus downtown, getting off in front of the old office building and having coffee and a chocolate bar out on the patio in front of Peet's. How many times have I done this now? To breakfast early, back to futz with the journal, then a bus ride downtown to do whatever, often whatever consisting of coffee in front of Peet's? We are in a rut and we are mentioning same, but I'm not complaining. Complaining would mean I'd have to do something about it and I'm not clear that's what's wanted.

A bus back to the apartment taking a photograph of another “hey take my picture!” guy at the stop. I see these as receiving a smile from the gods, puts me in a better mood, no matter my mood. And the mood was good in part because I think the antibiotics have done their stuff with the impacted sinuses: the nose feels better, a bit as it feels after a cold when the nose is clear, but still damp, and breathing in has a nice cool head clearing feeling. Good? Bad? Hard to tell. We're looking for good here even if it's way overused.

Back now, the manager was in, the keys were lying a bit off to the side on top of the dresser, but in plain sight for those who's memory and eyes remain connected. Maybe just keep the keys in the pocket when I get home, not put them with the wallet and such on the top of the dresser anymore. My routine: off with the shoes, on with the slippers, coins and keys on the dresser.

Do other people do this? Change into slippers? Empty their pockets? I always have, but it was a habit gained as a kid, the parents buying me a pair of slippers for Christmas now and again when the old pair wore thin. I buy them for myself now, don't consider why, other than it's more comfortable in slippers. I figure at least some others must do the same. Obviously not a question I've ever asked.

Later. Still feel pretty good, mid-afternoon now, the various news programs I listen to going in the background, plinking away on the guitar attempting the Beatles In My Life. Doesn't sound like In My Life, not the way I remember it anyway. Maybe put it up on the turntable and see if my memory is correct. I'm pretty good remembering old songs. Could it possibly be my playing? Some inability on my part to pluck the notes? Would you think? Expert I? I certainly hope not, here in Oakland.