Ages ago when people were ruled by the real sun instead of a mechanical sun, people rose with the sun, and retired with the sun. Summertime was production time, the nights were short and the day was long. Wintertime was resting time, the nights were long and the days were mercifully short.
Some linguists became curious about the phrase “between the sleeps” by 16th and 17th Century writers, and rediscovered the obvious. Babies tiny tummies hold a maximum of four hours fuel, and that mommies have been getting up in the morning watches to refuel them since the beginning of time. The main problem is the extra two hour sandwich between the two sleeps that stretches the bed time from eight hours to ten hours, cuts into precious daylight.
But hey! I am retired. Why should I conform to society’s clock? I am discovering a productive time of writing when I arise for that two hours in the night watches. If it was good enough for King David, it is good enough for me.
The rains have rolled away, leaving high thin clouds and drying breezes rustle the leaves. I miss the rains already. I remember reading when I was a child about the digging of the Suez Canal. Many of the native workers had never been around plumbing and had no concept how it worked. In the construction towns, people would leave the faucet running for fear that the water would stop permanently. I am like that with the rains. When they go, I start asking if this is the beginning of a sixth year of drought?
So today’s agenda. See if I can upgrade Snooks computer so she can load the latest edition of PhotoShop™ on it. Move the poorly running cassock air filter into my studio. Install new showerheads in the master bath. Meditate on a new character in a novel I am writing. I think I love her too much and will have to kill her off. Dead.
All in all, a day of promise.
OK. Evening is here, the pups got their goodies, the parakeet is nagging me for boogie type music, and I haven’t done a damn thing but comment on other blogs. The deal is, I gotta write every day. It don’t matter if it is on the novel, or in the journal, or a snide letter to the editor.
“Thou shalt write of it every day. Each and every day thou shall write of it.”
OK. I writeth of it.
It has been a rainy day. Great and glorious rain. Drizzling rain, pouring in sheets rain, showers, mists. We have been in such a long drought that I have forgotten what a rainy day looks like. Long dormant grasses and wild flowers have sprung up, sere trees are budding with an eye aching green, fields look like they are covered in green velvet. And the smell of wetness pervades all.
And today is a buying day … we picked out woodlike flooring for my studio and the guest bathrooms. The installers will remove the toilets, install the flooring and quarter round and be gone in one day. Who could hope for more?
And I bought new planters for the front porch to screen me as I sit and spy on the neighborhood comings and goings. My house is like the gate house … everyone has to drive by that nosey old man on the corner. Now that summer is here, I can take my morning coffee at sunrise there, and be entertained by the mourning doves lonesome coo, the mocking birds olio, and the cardinals fussing.
There you have it. A chirpy morning blog written close to bedtime. No broody reflections, no morose opinions. Just don’t get used to it.
I haven’t been here in awhile … I almost didn’t recover the password. Will I blog here, nor no? We’ll find out soon!
My new old home. I have had this site parked for a few years, and now that I have fled multiply.com I decided to park here. I know that I won’t have as many readers, but perhaps I’ll find a little more peace than I did at the social site.
I chose WordPress because it is more friendly to outside visitors than Blogger or Mulitiply. It doesn’t require memberships or logons to visit. I’ll cross post to facebook and twitter, so that many of my friends can just click thru …