Maybe Next Year
So it's not allergies. The doctor was sympathetic, but he wasn't buying the symptoms or the fact they'd come at the age of fifty-nine. None of the little pin pricks turned red and itchy. Give him a call if I liked, he'd had patients with my symptoms before, not many, and (some of them, I didn't ask how many) eventually recovered. Time? A couple of years. I didn't ask about the ones who hadn't improved, what happened to them, sitting there as I was, head wobbly, arms and chest tingling; head tingling, the morning coming to a close.
Violins, my son? Wide screen shot of a setting sun?
Time to stumble on. I didn't develop that black and white film over the weekend, but I didn't drop it off at the lab located near the allergist's office this morning either. So I guess I'm committed. I did get back the single roll of color I shot at the How Berkeley Can You Be? parade. One or two decent shots. The same group or was it a thinner group of participants, perhaps half the spectators or what seemed like half the spectators lining up along Univesity from previous years. I was able to walk up the sidewalk on the parade side where I've always had to cross the street and walk up the other side in the past. Sixty percent? Who knows. Who cares. I was hoping to get enough reasonable stuff to fill out the artandlife page. Maybe next year.
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