rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Because rain fell fairly heavily toward dawn, and I didn't get out to fetch the paper as soon as it arrived, it ended up getting soaked. Though the paper had been inserted into an orange plastic bag, the top of the bag had been tucked through the paper, like a sock inside another, leaving a vast orifice through which the rainwater, flowing down the driveway, could pass, rapidly turning the paper into a thoroughly sodden mass. The guy who delivers our paper is a dolt.

Then I woke to continued drizzle. Oh, displeasure! Then, when afternoon brought partial clearing and bright sunlight to whiten the tumbling clouds, it seemed that night might be clear as well. But as dusk neared, darker clouds again massed in the east. Oh, no! I was then sure I would miss the eclipse. As a further vexation, dinner was not good. Then, after dinner, I took the trash out and, to my surprise, I discovered that the weather had ceased being a total dick. The east had cleared and the rising moon was gleaming through the twigs of the bare oaks. I watched it turn deep orange, and was able to keep it at least partly in view through totality, though there was always a bit of foliage silhouetted against it. It was fairly cold out, but the air was full of post-storm freshness and so worth the mild discomfort.

Now that I've seen the moon turn the color of a pumpkin again, I'll probably be less crotchety for a few days, at least. Now, back to the rain.

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Sixteen

    No nap Wednesday evening, because I slept the middle of the day away and got up at half past two. I might actually get to sleep before five o'clock…

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Fifteen

    Once again I've forgotten when I went to sleep, but I woke up around two o'clock in the morning. Tuesday was quite warm, and I kept the windows open…

  • Reset Seventeen, Day Fourteen

    I don't recall the exact hour, but it was well before midnight Monday, when I felt the sudden need for a nap. I expected it to last until perhaps two…

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.