It is 5:45am and I am already out of time. The day approaches, with it comes the job. I had a bad day yesterday. There's some reason for me to check my work emails on my phone, though it comes with the price of added stress. Sometimes it's worth delineating sharply between work and personal time.
It's not worth writing or talking about. So, I won't.
I've just poured my second cup of coffee, on an empty stomach. That's certain to help.
Ah, if life were made of only mornings.
I spoke with a fellow at the local pub yesterday. He was an interesting sort. A Brit who lived in Germany, spent many years of his life busking, and who now lives with his wife of 35 years here in Sonoma. He made some observations about the people who live here, about the people who have only lived here. "It's not that they're stupid," he said, "they're only limited by experience." It partially explains a thing that I have often wondered about, why people insist on the supremacy of locale, mainly theirs.
We, of course, like it here very much. But living here comes with a sacrifice. Our membership to The Moma has expired, even the SF Moma membership has expired. Going regularly to museums is a lessening event for us, in terms of frequency. Perhaps by doing it less the sensation of newness will increase. I don't know. Robert Hughes writes about museum goers as if they are binge drinkers, how they gorge themselves on new visual sensations, trying to intake as much of it as they can in a single day, so that the result is meaningless or worse.
I want to travel again soon. Rachel and I have been talking about Italy, or Yellowstone. They would both be big trips, expensive, one much more than the other. Rachel said that portions of the drive down the coast beyond Big Sur reminded her of the Amalfi coast, though without the distinct architecture of Italy, and the cultural landscape, but more in the steepness of the shoreline, the relationship between traveler and terrain.
I only stepped out of the car once to take a picture, the one that I used at the bottom of yesterday's post. I never wanted to be a landscape photographer. No matter how well I take a picture when I go home I do a search for the same region and there are many that are much better than mine. So, it ends up meaning little to me, nothing at all. For me, it is the human's experience, their relationship to the landscape (or set) that fascinates me, each person's approach to the world, the ways in which they present themselves, or hide.
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