A neon sign glows atop a marquee sign outside a small movie theater

Ten years to make, and still right on time, resonant in multiple directions, turning the faces on the street not far from the theater in bright sunlight suddenly suspect, if not all too susceptible.

A vehicle on fire sends up a small column of dark smoke above backed up westbound Interstate 80 lanes along the incline of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.

Sun and rain tried trading places, trickling down at odd times today, with just enough energy to get in each other’s way, showcase the other’s work while stealing the spotlight. Fair amounts are due to linger through next Sunday’s larger deluge.

I got up early, hoping to beat the rush at the first of the day’s rains. There was enough time for me to make it to the donut shop over in Noe Valley and back before starting my shift. Empty streets were empty all the way through the Mission and uphill, the car windshield got lightly spritzed and the shop clerk was generous.

A large independent movie theater with an audience listening to panelists after a documentary screening

It wasn’t a dream, but it had its own logic: memory playing back on a loop, narrative laying out battles between good and evil with high stakes; familiar faces not met in person in months or even years, changed by time or age or the perspective of light moving on a large screen before a roomful of people who knew or didn’t know exactly how it all went down.

Dirt bike riders go though a multi street intersection

You undo the work you watched someone set up because it was done wrong, but neither you nor the person doing it at the time knew that. It’s not even you undoing the work, because you’re hiring someone else and it’s been overseen anew this time. Anyhow, it’s done now, with some promising stripped back version awaiting your hands. Did I say your hands? Ah, well.

A western perspective on a distant city skyline under partly sunny skies an hour after sunset from a highway

I don’t mind being in motion. I don’t mind stopping. But in between, all the little making of decisions, the fine tuning and steering, the built-in transactions it takes to toggle between states of being, that’s what distracts and drains and does me right in.

A chalkboard listing meats on offer at a farmers market stand perches next to a sidewalk.

Errand after errand, marveling at random religious proselytizers, spices and beverages that changed history, timing on traffic lights thrown off by median mendicants, immobile and immobilized shanties along roadways, towels for pets, toys for other pets, a little drycleaning and a lot of time to contemplate and condense rocketry and relationships into song.

The exterior of and the sidewalk outside a fortune teller shop.

Some reading, some music, an exterior jaunt weighed and deliberated over before being rejected, with a split between recent comedians and old talk show segments, made up most of the day. The cat and I left each other alone, me to my language drill and her to her bird watching, and the world outside and the weather overhead to a day’s distant indifference.

Storefronts along a roadway

There’s no magic pathway to dressed in black dancefloor redemption, no distracted wandering off a soundstage into an office casual ouroborotic rehearsal in the round. Not only can’t one step in the same river twice, one ain’t supposed to. Some things aren’t just impossible: they’re also wrong.

Yesterday evening’s gibbous moon over a not-yet-on street lamp

I’m pretty sure there’s something I’ve been Getting Wrong, the kind of thing I have to pretty much fix first by reaching the point where I’m more Tired Of It. I may not know exactly what to do, but I’m feeling fairly certain about what to Stop Doing.