Not much in the way of photos over the weekend. I picked up the black and white contact sheets late this afternoon and found maybe three or four usable pictures. I've got a roll of color coming back tomorrow. Not to worry. My heart wasn't in it. Sometimes your heart isn't in it. I learned a little more about black and white in the bright sun, most of which I will forget, many of the photographs, well, embarrassingly uninteresting. (What in the hell was I thinking?) But these things happen. One day you're hot, one day you're not. Some of them look out of focus on the contact sheet. Out of focus? When's the last time I had any trouble with focus? (There was that first year, you understand, but that was a long time ago, an entirely different camera, an entirely different set of eyes.)

Wednesday, after a bout after work with the folks at the brewery pub. Four beers doesn't necessarily make for coherent writing. We talked the usual talk, speculated the usual speculations over what may be coming on Friday. I've been feeling better these last two days after a fretful weekend, whatever will happen this Friday will happen. There are so many rumors there's no way to tell what they'll announce, who they'll let go when the day is over. The opinion was expressed that the most bizarre outcome at this point would be for nothing to happen, what with the endless speculation, but ultimately I will have a job at the end of the day Friday or I will not. Life goes on, and, I suspect, for good reason.

The computer I ordered last week arrived today. The package with the extra parallel port was sitting outside my door, but the main package required a signature, so I signed and taped it to the mail box with instructions to leave it with the apartment manager. So I guess I'll fire it up this weekend. I invented a reasonable excuse to buy it, now we'll see if it has any relation to reality. "To learn some things I need to learn." Hard to argue with that. I'll load this copy of Windows Advanced Server I have on the software pile and add the patches, see if it talks to me in dulcet tones, urges me on to a better tomorrow. I'm tired, I'm more than a little high, I shouldn't be writing. We'll go at this again tomorrow.

Thursday. Home at five, the computer, for whatever reason, hadn't been delivered. The signed form with the instructions was taped to my mailbox. I'd called the freight outfit last night (cause it said to call) and they said "not to worry, you'll have it today". Or, I guess, tomorrow.