Sunday, May 22

The upstairs neighbors are having a work party or something. It looks like they're installing a drip irrigation system in the back yard. They've got music on loud. Phish, Led Zep, Floyd, lots of the Dead. It might be a Pandora station, but I hope not. Lately I'm taking a dim view of algorithmically determined music selection, or at least a dim view of Pandora, which has entirely taken over the public-audio landscape around here and seems to exhibit an ever-narrower imagination. All of the easy choices rendered automatic. Radio minus the human element.

I should have offered to help with the irrigation system, but I didn't. A couple of us went camping up at West Mag last night. My first trip of the year. It was windy and I barely slept and I've been feeling strange all day: Tired, old, stiff, kind of spiritually dislocated. So now it's pushing 5 in the afternoon and here I sit in my laundry-cluttered bedroom drinking the last of the Black Label and thinking I ought to go out but I'm not sure where exactly "out" would be.

Rusted Root is playing now. I have cooked and eaten a "vegan sausage" on a tortilla. It tasted nothing like a sausage and not altogether like something made out of plants. The whiskey is almost gone. I am thinking untenable thoughts about the present and too-accurate ones about the past. Boulder, Colorado: How am I doing on that sense-of-place thing?