Wednesday Night

The joy of working at 7:30 in the morning is you are done by 4:15. It is now 7:30, and I have come home, played with the cat, changed out of work clothes, started laundry, eaten dinner, put on the Giants game, chatted online with my mom, and now I am sitting at the kitchen island, sipping a small glass of brandy while I watch the water droplets accumulate on the window, from the rain that is still mostly misting down, but which is gradually coalescing into something fiercer.

A black classic VW Bug pulls into the Burger King parking lot down the hill. It looks old and tarnished, but still shiny from the rain. The fog is creeping over Twin Peaks.

The brandy is hot and prickly on my tongue, then slides down my throat.

Later on, I will sit down and read the rest of last Sunday's paper, which is too big to read in one day.

Nights like this, it is pleasant to just let your mind be quiet, have no real plans or deadlines, just a few general inclinations.

There are changes in the air, advances to be made. But for tonight, time to relax. Too much heavy thinking just weighs down the mind.

A Saturday In San Francisco

"This is what makes working all week worth it," I commented.

"No, it doesn't." Then we got into an debate as to whether the absolute brilliance of the day, the Giants' victory over Colorado, the sun, the water--rolling and rippling below the Embarcadero--and the overall Saturdayness of this great Saturday in San Francisco was irrelevant with regards to whether work was worth it or not, or whether it merely ameliorated the impact of the workaday paradigm.

We didn't even discuss the question of whether the city is the cure for everything we let go from our past, all the former selves and imaginings that didn't pan out and which hung about like millstones around our necks until we could set them aside and look at them with curiosity.

I maintain that the answer is that this totally makes work worth it. I'll let you be the judge, based on the pictures below.