Flowers Munched

The deer have returned. Late last night, when tree shadows turned the light of the low moon to intricate filligree, I went out to enjoy the night air. As I walked along the driveway, I stepped on a single dry leaf which crunched loudly, and I heard the sudden clop of hooves on the pavement across the street. The noise had startled several deer. They were not visible in the darkness, but I listened to them trot away. This morning, the early light reveals that most of the blossoms have been stripped from the rose bushes in every nearby yard. The deer must have been feasting for quite some time before I disturbed them.

Later, I had an interesting political fantasy. Dick Cheney has a massive heart attack (the ghost of Warren G. Harding forbid) and can't run. The Republicans decide that, to avoid the alienation of black voters, rather than kick Colin Powell out of the administration, they will kick him upstairs and run him for Vice President. They win the election. Meanwhile, Barack Obama is elected to the Senate, rapidly distinguishes himself in that body, gains a strong political base, and becomes the Democratic nominee for President in 2008. Powell becomes very popular as Vice President, and gains the Republican nomination for the Presidency. We have two black candidates for President in 2008.

The thing that would make me happiest is no more years of Bush. Having a contest between Powell and Obama is the thing that would make me second happiest. It's a very long shot, of course, but possible nevertheless. We would probably get political debates and speeches that were actually worth listening to, for a change. It's about time that something non-abysmal happened in American politics, anyway.

Familiar

I became entirely detached from reality this afternoon. It was enjoyable. I wouldn't mind being detached from reality all the time, if it weren't for the fact that I'd never get anything done. Not that I get all that much done, anyway, but at least I manage to prevent the house from becoming an utter sty, and I cook some stuff and remember to eat it, usually. Oh, and I feed the cat.

The reality from which I become detached isn't particularly unpleasant. It's merely dull. In fact, I missed nothing at all today. There were no errands to run, the needful tasks were finished quickly, and no surprises arose. It's surprising how easy it is to become detached from a reality so mundane. When I was a kid, I would get bored on days such as this, but now I slip effortlessly into imaginary worlds without even realizing that I'm doing so. I suppose my time might be better employed with reading or some other such form of what is commonly considered to be self-improvement. Had the computer been capable of operating for a longer period of time, I might have spent the afternoon writing, or getting some order into the chaos of folders which has accumulated on the hard drive, but Sluggo's orneriness saved me from those useful activities. Sluggo, my co-conspirator in sloth.

Now that evening is here, I could spend some time describing the real world as it is, but, in truth, it is much the same as it has been of late. The day was bright and hot, the sky clear, the trees summer green. These are days of suspension, when little changes, and one barely notices the slow and currently stately march toward entropy. Tonight, the moon is nearing the full, and Arcturus glows faintly, waiting for the bear to emerge in the darkening sky. This year's crickets continue to chirp their brief lives away while the town settles down for the night, the traffic diminishing, and the windows going dark, one by one. The place is, in a word which conveys my utter lack of excitement and my minimal interest, undistressed. I think I might shower now, and then go back into my detachment.