Monday, October 26, 2020


The spot on my arm where I got contact dermatitis from something horribly allergenic three weeks ago itches like heck, but it's almost healed. It looked like a burn for three weeks. There is something growing in this neighborhood which is exceedingly nasty, don't know what. A plant that yields a toxic dust. Naturally I'm blaming the white techo-yuppies that have infested the city in recent years, and cheering their departure, now that they can't do what they came here to enjoy. Pot, nightclubs, bars to get riotously drunk in, and chique restaurants.
There is an upside to the pandemic.

Woke up from an enjoyable dream in which I was hitting people fiercely with a rough walking stick suitable for hiking, because they were not wearing their masks. Many people.
Damned kids, get off my public transit conveyance!

Also, two phrases in my head, and the French National Anthem from the Empire. Derech eretz, minhag hamakom, and Le Chant du Départ. No, not Partant pour la Syrie (unofficial, during the Napoleonic period), which is remarkably silly, sappy even. Le Chant du Départ has vim. Vigour. Spirit. Derech eretz in the main means good manners, common courtesies, politesse.
Minhag hamakom refers to the customs of the place, accepted practise.

My dreams tend toward slightly berserk nowadays.
Courtesy of the medication I am on.
It's rather fun.

Having finished my first cup of coffee, I'm heading out soon for the first pipe of the day.
A squat bulldog by GBD

Astleys No. 109 in a lovely old piece by Ganneval, Bondier & Donninger. It's a briar I've had for decades. Very suitable for stomping through the scrub jungle of Nob Hill, where the leopards roam and muntjac forage. I shall indulge my wild side.
With civilized restraint.

It's Autumn.


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