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Naked and Painted Blue I haven't been whining enough lately about the jaw, or actually, about the mouth, since the jaw's been fine. Everything around the mouth for about an inch and a half has been numb, the roof of the mouth has been numb and the teeth, particularly the lower front teeth at the base, ache. Except not so much, not so much. I take a pain pill two or three times a day, but the time between them gets farther and farther apart. This is good. End of whine.
I got up thinking if I moved to Lake Merritt or wherever
I'd have a new territory to scout, a new breakfast place to find and
I took the bus over to Berkeley and bought a copy of Joan Osborne's CD relish on Telegraph. I've always liked her song "One of Us": "What if god was one of us?" and today I heard the song on the radio and they announced her name so I put the two together and went out and bought it. Says copyright 1995 on the CD and that it's won a bunch of Grammy awards, which in my day was the kiss of death, but what the fuck, you've got to start somewhere.
I notice some of the more seriously bent journalers (Nicholas E.
Grinder, English gentleman, comes
Two admissions of guilt: First, I didn't attend the gallery opening of my fellow student at the night photography class. I'll go by today and see what he's been up to. (Actually I'm lying, I probably won't unless I can figure a way to make a good lunch out of it.) Maybe it will suggest some direction to my own interminable string of snapshots. Second, the address. Albany. Where is Albany, I asked, more than once, and then I looked at the address. Solano Avenue, site of the annual Solano Stroll, an event I've shot two out of the last three years, located around the corner from my dentist. Perhaps all this complaining about memory loss is a clumsy fabrication and way deep down under there's a cranky little monkey making finger shadows, trying to communicate with the superstructure above that life is too short for all this squididdly shit, stop hyperventilating and get back to the source: long summer naps fishing by the river and pan fried catfish. |
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maybe a movie theater within walking distance. Those were good thoughts.
Then I slapped myself a couple of times and snapped out of it. It's
been a day where one thing moved so smoothly into the next I'm not
sure I was connected, like I was sitting in an otherwise empty theater
watching my life on film. Could be those pills are better than
I thought.
to mind) will list
the CDs they're listening to in any given week. You never
know, particularly with the British (old country, early
Roman influence, blue buck assed naked early morning bunny hopping
around the ancient stones, bottles of Laudanum stashed about
in their basements) if they're pulling your leg recommending the
Warwickshire Mugwumps just to see if you can tell the difference while
they sit there watching, sipping on a pint, or if it's the real McCoy,
scatological hijinks and electric guitars. Still, worth a try. The
seriously crazy often demonstrate excellent taste in their music.