Saturday

Aug 4, 2001

a little history

I was up in the wee hours doing something, I'm not sure what. It was one of those nights where I got up from THE ROOM, picked up glasses and such, turned out lights and then wandered to my computer. After much time had passed, I slunk off to bed feeling bad seeing FFP and Chalow on the bed, light blazing in their eyes. But those eyes were closed. They didn't seem to be bothered by it all.

SuRu is out of town. I awake several times in the night, reviewing dreams. Some were disturbing. But I've forgotten those. The only one I remember involved some pieced together scribbles and notes that I was carefully preserving as if they were a precious document.

We finally get up. Coffee, papers. We make some migas. I do something I never do: I not only read some of the paper, but I work a crossword. Before noon. Not the New York Times puzzle, of course. It's too hard on Saturday. The easy one in The Statesman.

Then I do a packaging for the gift certificate we bought for tonight's celebrants. (We are going to a thirtieth wedding anniversary.)

Then I do a birthday card for my birthday mate, Debbie. She is a year younger than I am. Her mother shared a birthday with my mother, too. They were one year apart. We were friends before we learned this. But this little silly coincidence has become the cliche of our friendship. We met on an airplane one time. Our mutual birthday is next Sunday. I'll celebrate all weekend. But on Sunday, Mom will make us a meal and we will hang out with them.

FFP and I decide it will be a neat idea to go to the Barnes and Noble on campus. We haven't been to Guadalupe, just west of the campus, in a long time. So we drive down there and find a place to park. It's kind of summer session dead.

We walk through the Renaissance Market and see that both tie dying and slacking are still alive and well.

We hang out a long time in the bookstore. It is pleasant and quiet. I find an easy chair and browse a book about Florence and a couple of computer books. Then we have an iced coffee and I browse the Michelin Green Guide to Italy in the Florence section. (I like how they tell that there are exactly 414 steps to the top of the famous dome.)

FFP decides he needs a couple of books and some tapes for his dad. I decide that he can buy me a Dreamweaver book and the bargain bin Florence book (with lots of color plates of paintings and such). My birthday is coming after all. I've been being pretty good about books.

We take a short walk up the street to stand where FFP peaked out of the door on the day of the shootings. We go wander through the Student Union, look at the bowling alley and the various food places and rooms. It smells old and moldy although lots of renovation his taken place. It's a labyrinth of out-of-the-way places. FFP pauses at the window where a bullet from Whitman, aimed at a crowd in a stairwell trying to see what was going on, pierced a guy's forearm. I'm caught up in his nostalgia and such as well as that old feeling that I always get around large campuses: the feeling that anything is possible, every idea can be had, somewhere in some nook or cranny of the physical plant. It's an overwhelming feeling, slightly heady and slightly uncomfortable.

We go see where they let people into the tower. The guard tells us that the tickets are sold in the Union. We go back there and get the details of getting reservations and tickets. We don't make any just now, though.

We go back to our car. It's sizzling from the sun even though we put the sunscreen in the windshield. FFP cranks the air conditioner. When we are in the garage and he switches it off, it is instantly hot again. The car radiates heat and is warm to the touch as I take the books out of the back seat. Time of the day that one needs to hunker down!

I edit some pictures and type up a draft of the menu for my birthday wine dinner I'm planning. I send this off to those invited. I snack on chips, hot sauce, onions and cheese. My old reliable snack. In contrast to the gourmet food I've been typing about.

We gear up in the still hot afternoon to go the thirtieth wedding anniversary. Black tie optional. Which means Forrest elects a dinner jacket. We stop by his parents to take his dad the tapes and they marvel at how we look. It is so hot outside that things seem to be drying up before your eyes.

The party is nice. Several very nice wines. Caymus Conundrum. A Crozes Hermitage. A nice Zinfandel that presents like a Pinot. Champagne. There is a seven piece orchestra. A sit down dinner. We have a considerable good time with our dinner companions. Especially one with whom we discuss movies, psychic powers and such. Everyone dances. It's really a nice affair.

Thirty years is a long time. In a world where nothing lasts. I take their picture with my digital camera for the record. Good job, guys.

It is late, past eleven, when we walk out into the night. It is still so hot. FFP thinks we should go hear Rebecca do a couple of tunes. It seems a good idea. She plays until 1 AM. We talk to Steve, her boyfriend. We talk to some lost soul who is very full of herself. Someone sits in on Rebecca's break to sing some of those 'boy on the piano with great angst singing, apparently in a foreign language.' Does anyone ever really understand those words?

It's late. We go home to tomorrow.

tie dye lives

Whitman looked the other way

JUST TYPING

There have been a few dust-ups in the community of journalers about 'just typing.' About just writing what you did, ate, dreamed, wore, read, saw, listened to. I'm not a part of this 'community.' One that flames and competes, gives awards, etc. And, in any case, I've decided that recording such mundane things is good for my writing. I believe if I only had more time, then I could do 'real' writing and that this writing would benefit from all this typing. But I could be wrong. Because I don't seem to find time to do that real writing and maybe I never will. If that's the case, so be it. At least I'll know what I ate in the year 2001. Surely this will be useful when I donate my body to science.