Woke up around 4. Actually got up about 5. I had my coffee and stuff and got going at 6 to take a load of packages to the post office. That went OK, except the chute jammed of course, so I put my packages on the counter in a couple of the bins they always have around, and got out of there.
It was smoky all right, but the smoke was thin enough that the sun cast slight shadows. Not fun to be out in, but what choice have I got?
On the way back I got some green onions behind H Mart and a couple poblano peppers and some cilantro by Grill 'Em. Breakfast or 2nd breakfast or whatever it is, was scrambled eggs with green onion.
I took some junk I'd stashed in the trash enclosure up to the tall dumpster at the front of this complex, then took my little red bucket of organic trash and a bottle of water and dumped that in the blackberry patch. I seriously considered getting some beer and could just about taste that beer, but reasoned that if I'm going to drink, beer's a pretty expensive way to do it; the cheapest way to get it nearby is $7 or so for three tall cans, while the cheapo vodka I got is about $14 for a whole bottle. Drinking that to the tune of a little bit per cup of ice water, seems to work.
Overnight I thought about the old dilemma of internal versus external goals. This is what books like "The Inner Game Of Tennis" are written about. Essentially, the sport or whatever it is you're doing, has to be enjoyable for its own sake, regardless of whether you get money etc. for doing it, for you to get good at it.
I'm going to amend that simple theory, though, to say that money, fame, etc. can be strong motivators and a good part of why you like doing the thing. I liked doing a sport I used to do, but it was money, national/world standing, etc. that had me doing it 5 hours a day. And I'm finding my interest in trumpet playing really palling now that it appears busking is off the table for at least the next few years and perhaps indefinitely.
I was really looking at the possibility of renting some place downtown, perhaps an office in a building I know of where they're OK with people sleeping in there as long as they're neat, and just playing trumpet. My Whole Foods spot was very profitable, and there are other Whole Foods stores around. What a life it could be, I thought; no more worries about Ebay or electronics or any of that, just playing and learning more, sneaking into the practice rooms at the college to use their pianos, and just devoting myself to music 100%.
And I was seriously considering moving to New Orleans, because it's a music town. With Social Security paying my rent, I'd go out and busk and be able to live a life based just on music. I'd even bought books, one by a busker that comes with a CD, and one by a guy who's a lawyer for his day job, about how to play "New Orleans Trumpet" with a neat looking cover. The cover's about the best part of that one, though, because it's mainly how to "read charts" and bragging about being a lawyer in New Orleans who plays trumpet.
I was really serious about this, figuring out street car lines and neighborhoods, where the Social Security and Veterans' Administration offices are, and so on. I can't even think about going there now. The virus really showed how goddamned stupid the South is, even Southern towns that might have a couple of semi-neat neighborhoods.
But getting back to internal vs. external goals. I was intended to be an artist. I don't want to say "born" but I might as well have been, because from my earliest memories I was drawing or painting and was constantly being given art materials. And I liked doing art, but I was also given a feeling that it was expected of me.
So I'd get this feeling of, how can I do as little as possible and still be doing art, and not screw anything up, as "mistakes" were really picked on. Kids (and adults) were mean then. So one day in elementary school we were drawing, and I couldn't think of a thing to draw. The recipe was pretty simple, too, if you were a girl you drew your family, preferably lined up next to a house with a chimney sticking up at an angle and the obligatory curl of smoke. If you were a boy you drew a race car, or an airplane. We had a race car specialist and I was known for planes but I didn't think of that and I had to (a) draw something, and (b) not screw up. I was thinking, frantically, "What do I know how to draw??" And it came to me that I knew how to draw a pig. The construction paper (loathesome stuff) I had was pink or red, some color that's good for a pig, so I drew a nice, big, pig. A big oval for the body, etc. As elementary school pigs go, it was pretty good.
My pig upset the teacher somehow, maybe it's because instead of the standard themes I'd drawn this pig, right out of nowhere. She seemed to feel it was a sign of something, that I was upset and so I'd drawn a pig to show it. The truth was I'd just pulled something out of my ass to fulfill a contract, something every commercial artist knows about.
Ken came by at about 10, and wanted to unload this huge helium dewar he'd bought, thinking it was a lot smaller, and put it in the shop. That took some work. So now we have this giant helium dewar making the shop that much more crammed with stuff. I'm to list it on Ebay tonight.
After all the messing around with the dewar, I made a big batch of lime flavored ice water with a whole tray of ice in the big Yeti thermos I have, so Ken could drink all he wants. Pretty good system really. And we talked about stuff, the usual, how to fix the world etc. I hadn't expected Ken tonight and he said he hadn't expected to come by tonight but decided to on the spur of the moment. So I was stinky, the bathroom was dirty, and I hadn't moved the calendar and the wall clock moved where I wanted them to be when Ken came by.
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