Ojai

Friday evening.
My friend and I found our seats next to Tim Mangan of OC Register who apparently mistook us to be a "young couple," of which we are neither. Francois Narboni's El Gran Masturbador was awful. It seriously had me thinking that whatever he was smoking when he wrote it, he should never share it. But it was okay--I only cared for Chaplin's Modern Times anyway, which turned out to be enjoyable.
Saturday morning.
We stole a listen of Dawn Upshaw and Gilbert Kalish from the bleachers at the tennis court. During Alban Berg's Die Nachtigall, I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. But a single tear escaped from the side of my right eye and ran down my cheek to neck then further down inside my shirt.

Saturday afternoon.
I was second in line to get my copy of the book signed by Alex Ross. I drove back home ecstatic.

Saturday evening.
Back home, I'm packing for my week long vacation. Going away thinking that I may never come back--it has become a habitual thought of mine before a trip.