Tuesday at this time (9:15 a) I was heading up to the parking lot at Fremont to get a cup of coffee and then head out on the walk that brought me past the glorious, reach-for-the-sky Douglas Fir on Shaver. This morning (Wednesday 9:15 a) I’m sick as a dog.
Yesterday (Tuesday) late afternoon my son told me he had spoken to his wife about having me Baker Act’d, what’s known as 5150’d in California. We used to call it being committed. For my seemingly growing inability to make good decisions to take care of myself. I asked him to please hold off on that. I said I liked my freedom.
Children, right? Got it all figured out. Who knows, maybe they do. And I suppose there’d be what’s somewhat flippantly referred to as “three hots and a cot.” I wonder how many books you’re allowed to bring? And are there daily outings to stroll through the falling leaves and feel the cooling breeze on increasingly wrinkled skin? Never mind a stereo and headphones and The Clash and a thousand other hit records.
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, though a few of my recent decisions are right up there. One of those noted hit records sang, “the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time.” Between you and me I’d like to think it’s the funny farm right down here in the basement. The buddhas and plants and sweet potatoes are for sure laughing at me most of the time.
Or is it with me?
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