So, they put me on Saturdays.

And tho' depressed and sleeping 'til 2 in the afternoon, calling mom and making tea, hungry, after three days off, granted one is needed for rest, I'm tired of yoga and being alone and reading the Bhagavad Gita, and so I get ready for work at the old bar wine bar dining room.  A night upstairs at the wine bar is, quite the opposite of the placid main dining room downstairs, table clothed, air-conditioned, predictable, more or less, is never ever clean-cut and simple.  Not ever, not once.

It's a tedious start.  From only two reservations, then in comes the foot traffic...  L comes up from downstairs...  helps here and there, but it's complicated and I'm already busy, trying to lead the blind who demanding in their blindness.


I've come to think that mainly the writing personality is just that, a facet of the human personality.  Perhaps it is a character flaw, a flaw of the species.  A peculiarity, tending to manifest in the Irish, for example.   The animal cannot find solid ground for calm happiness without fellow beings.

Strange forest-dweller instinct to retreat to a solitary place to the notebook, to leave the norm...