Another Tuesday Survived

The moon laughed at the storm riding away, tattered remnants of cloud like rent garments blowing away from Orion, leaving him naked in the moon-bright sky. Winter's stars were given a few hours to sparkle, and then, as though creeping back when the moon at last settled below the horizon, the clouds returned to shroud each small light, one by one. All remains damp, and perhaps more rain will come, or maybe the sun will emerge long enough to dry things out. If the rain returns, then I will probably see again, as yesterday, the acorn woodpeckers gathered on the upwind side of the telephone pole. There were half a dozen of them yesterday afternoon. I've come to expect them every rainy day, patiently enduring the storm in the driest place to which they can cling. I have no idea where they nest, but they clearly prefer to be out and about in the daytime, even when all the other birds are conspicuously absent. I never tire of listening to their odd, scolding chuckles as they jockey for position on the pole. They have definitely become my favorite winter birds.

As yesterday was Tuesday, and it was observed by everyone of whom I am aware, it is clear that my desire to abolish the day is not widely shared. I begin to doubt that it will be possible to alter an institution of such long standing as the seven day week. People simply don't realize how much better of we would all be without Tuesday. It is difficult for me to simply ignore the day when everyone else continues to accept its existence. I tried all day to pretend that it was already Wednesday, but ultimately failed. The newspaper was dated Tuesday, the networks ran their usual Tuesday shows, and even Sluggo claimed that it was Tuesday when I hovered my cursor over the clock in the task bar. How can I succeed against such powerful opposition? But at least the wretched day is gone for another week, and I need not deal with it until then.

No Subject Line

The color of the sunset this evening gave me a craving for lox. This is a product difficult to find in these parts, despite the fact that there are fairly large salmon fisheries nearby, and a major salmon stream flows within a mile of my house. In truth, I'm not that fond of lox, in any case, but once in a while I get a nostalgic craving for it. This probably has more to do with the places in which I used to eat the stuff than it has to do with the stuff itself. I don't like carob at all, but now and then I find myself craving it, just as an evocation of another time and place. I guess I'm lucky I never tried smack.

Rummaging about in a pile of CD's today, I came across my collection of Ernesto Lecuona's solo piano renditions of his own work. After playing it for the first time in ages, I was reminded of why I let it settle to the bottom of the pile. His music alternately delights and outrages me. He'll start with an interesting idea, then veer off into something inane or pretentious, or simply incomprehensible in the context of the opening. I intend to listen to it some more, in hopes of figuring out exactly what it is that goes so terribly wrong in so many of his pieces. I suppose this could be considered the musical equivalent of forensic pathology. Yes, we know that he committed this crime, but how and why?

But I'll do that later. Now I will go make myself wet in the shower, so that I will match everything else around here, which is still damp despite the end of the rain. So much moisture, so little sun. My hair will look funny because I am out of mousse.