1.24.00

Lighter days of the thin wrists and swiveling waist bands. Whatever the new year has brought, I have lost appetite and sleep in the face of it. I who virtually die each night for circadian rebirth am now restlessly and prematurely arriving at new days, wondering what I will do with so much time. (This life is long.) What I am doing is walking in the dawn hours, three miles and quite often. Yet there is more time than just for that so I'm working out too, lifting like always. The body has been called to task and is reorganizing and laying off. The car I'm driving isn't starting any longer. It's not a battery thing, but something else that remains undiagnosed until I can arrange for a tow truck. I don't feel stranded, but more burdened with a driveway obstruction. The bus comes and takes me away. Angela was kindred enough to spend most of this weekend with me. Friday we made dinner together and then she drove us up to The Crest to see The Straight Story. Later we closed out Zoka and stayed on longer while the boys cleaned up. It was late when I got to sleep and though we had resolved to wake early for a walk around Greenlake, I was up earlier than that, aching. We walked and afterward she took me to work. I had two appointments scheduled several hours apart in some poorly-planned and never-to-be-repeated day. After the first appointment I caught the bus to downtown for the gym and caught the bus back. The second appointment had cancelled so I called her again and we set off, again. We ate the leftovers from the night before before heading out to Elliot Bay Bookstore and a reading. It was such a strange event, attended by strange people. A book has been published of Seattle's poetry and photography. No one came but long-time Seattle artists supporting the editor, it seemed. What happens to people who spend decades mulling art? They become walking galleries, white-walled and bearing a hodgepodge of avant garde shape, texture, and color.

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