Everyday is the same, but a little different, like the same day playing itself out over and over again in parallel universes, contemporaneous existences, the pieces stay in place as the board moves, the world tilting on its axis, speed wobbling into the turn around the sun, spinning out of orbit, hurtling into the Milky Way.
The routines have established themselves. Awake. Listen. Coffee. Write. Work. Drive. Walk. Read. Eat. Watch. Listen. Sleep.
The dog sleeps in the loft, staying put when I leave for bed near midnight. She comes down after the sun has come up, three floors from the loft to the basement apartment master bedroom, one step at a time, reluctant between floors. The old dog wakes me up everyday sometime between 7:30 and 9:00am, we are on Standard Doodle Time.
I’m along the river, just off Fishbein Road (what kind of fish have legs?), on Riverside Trail with my cameras, doing another ‘walking around’ video. This one has no narration, no music, stripped down to its essence, just the sound of my footsteps on the gravel. I post it on one of my Youtube channels overnight and rack up dozens of views. There are other people like me who watch this stuff! There are!
So relaxing. So much nothing.
At the bridge, I turn around and turn off the camera. I remember that Tino Bernard used to live near here. I call him up, but get voicemail. No one, even Tino, answers their phone anymore.
Tino tells an interesting story about a time when he was checking into a motel outside of Kingston. He used to be a roving photographer of some kind with a large territory, two ex-wives and a drinking problem. He was checking in and the clerk said. “Didn’t you just check out?”
“No, I just got here.”
They looked at the register and another Tino Bernard had just checked out and left. The way my Tino tells it, there was still a dust cloud in the parking lot. Seems there were two Tino Bernards in the Kingston vicinity that day.
Not much of story, I know.
But the other Tino Bernard doesn’t even know it happened.