Just sitting here on the sofa, listening to the Pandora Worldbeat station. Vaguely-Argentine guitar played by a guy named Johannes Linstead. I thought he might be Swedish, given the name, but no. Canadian.
I watch my hands, the veins that run between my knuckles are rising. Age. I’ll be 60 in September – I look forward to new adventures.
Although California’s in a heat wave, our marine layer persists. The sky is overcast, as of 8:24am. The night was cool, you can feel it still. The garden wet from the sprinklers that ran last night at 5pm; it was too hot to cook. I ate paté on sourdough, salsa and chips, some of a chocolate cupcake, an apple past its time. Drank old California cabernet, grown, originally, I suppose, from French vines.
Paris flooded. All safety to the beauty and the people.
I may be worrying some of you exceptionally nice people. I’m OK. Just tired from continuing issues with my mother’s care, and unable to muster concepts. I wish I had more to give you, but I’d rather write than not. Thanks for your forbearance.
You know what felt good? I walked outside without shoes, and a little piece of gravel stuck between the sole of my foot and the concrete path. I laughed. I gave my roses extra water, a crow landed nearby.
All the best for your weekend and beyond.