To those elsewhere suffering in stifling heat, our weather problems here may seem trivial, but the exceptionally thick fog and gusty winds made today an exceptionally uncomfortable one in the city by the bay.
Luckily, one of my sons and I had lunch at a great place on Potrero Hill, and then tonight have been watching a good baseball game on TV.
I'm anticipating my daughter's return from her long trip in the wilderness tomorrow. We'll all have dinner afterwards to hear her stories.
I've slowly come to realize how I'm all about stories, maybe even an extreme for writers.
The problem with letting stories animate your universe if you may be missing the real thing, right?
Life?
Stories are more or less idealizations of life, which by contrast is messy, unorganized, inconsistent and physical.
Stories are cerebral.
Tonight, as I walked into my local grocery store to shop, a man and a woman tried to get two shopping carts separated, so they each would have one in which to place their groceries.
The carts just seemed stuck and wouldn't separate, no matter how much effort both of them made.
"Maybe," I said, as I passed the man, "That is how little carts get born."
He laughed.
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