Memory of experience is fickle and fleeting. I can barely process in my fist-sized brain the content of my own adventures which are now water under the proverbial bridge, but which water recurs selectively in waves, informing the now.
Here is a picture of the delightful and wonderful Raya and me from the cruise, which i will blog about tomorrow, retroactively.
Now, I am in a library in West Oakland, where i have formed a contentious relationship with the desk clerk, a geeky black man who asserts himself with a cocky you-should-already-know-that air.
Working on Rosanna's project, which is okay. More on that later
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