My word of the day is pterygium or "tympanic membrane". Gosh, it just gives me goose-flesh. Delightfull.
The perfect triptych of white family Berkeley hippie-dom appeared to me today on a busy street (Telegraph, actually. Northbound.): Young-ish 20-something man wearing waist length dreads and what appears to be either rags or an orphan's costume for the musical "Oliver" propelling his skateboard mid-lane. He is closely followed what must have been his father wearing similarly shabby earth-toned clothes, a corduroy blazer and a natty battered fedora peddling a very stylishly ancient bicycle and towing his young daughter who is wearing Rollerblades and an immaculate derby with a speck of peacock feather peeking out of the band. And what are they using for a tow-line? A navy blue tie.
I have been tempted to change my profile photo; it was taken four months ago at an impulsive San Francisco outing to the most wonderfully old and eccentric bar. I was so delighted. I feel so different. Since Heather's death, it has been difficult to get up in the morning and endure the day (weekend or weekday is irrelevant). I feel every hour of nearly forty years, every line, every pound. I am my own anchor and that anchor is ast the bottom of a very dark sea, at the moment anyway. As I seem to be repeating to every request: I can't, I can't.
I just need to make it to my doctor on the 27th and maybe something can be done.
Now wasn't that cheery?!