Thou shalt write each and every day. The profound, and the banal, thou shalt write of it.
Wednesday dawns with bright blue skies and a brilliant yellow sunrise that sends its streaks across the sparkling grasses, and backlights the pecan and acacia tree in greens and golds. A pot filled with sweet alyssums shows its tiny blooms on the stoop. The rumble of a 50-gallon trash barrel being dragged* out to the lane by Snookums interrupts the idyll. Yep. Wednesday is trash day.
Little routines like that are the only marks of passage of time for me now. Sunday is brunch day, Monday is Snooks shopping day, Tuesday Snooks volunteers at a local food bank, Wednesday is trash day, Thursday is my shopping day, Friday is preparation day. And … Saturday is Shabbat.
And so goes the little reminders that time has not ceased yet.
The news feeds are full of hidden references to Fusion GPS and the political machinations around it. I am still not clear on who the players are, but given the climate of confusion and political counterstrikes, truth has become subjective. I suppose in time it will all play out. When I automatically assume that they are all lying to me, I get less worked up. Evil is good and good is evil is the meme. Trust no one.
But for the moment, a cottony softness surrounds me. Snooks talk radio natters off in the distance. Anonymous banks and bumps remind me that this is a home full of pets going on about their day. Kippur da Budgie nags me for noise, but I don’t want to turn the radio on yet.
I just wanna sip coffee in silence, and pound out my 250 words for the day.
* I prefer trash barrel being drug out to … but I can hear my old English teacher, Mrs. Ginder, primly telling me that drug is not a verb, but rather a noun. Dragged is the preferred word.
But drug just feels better. Damned yankiesms anyway …