October 17th, 2003

caillebotte_man at his window

More Stuff

I did some snooping about at The Athenaeum, which, among other things, has a goatload of art images, mostly 19th century and earlier. The site is not as well designed as it might be, and the pages of the index load v-e-r-y slowly for anyone on dialup, but the advantage the place has over many other sites with art on them is that it is entirely free of ads and popups and other extraneous crap. It would be very enjoyable for anyone with a fast Internet connection.

Yesterday, Angela Lansbury turned 78. I'm amused that she shares a birthday with Flea, who turned 41. They ought to do a project together. Maybe a musical.

The moon, barely gibbous, now casts a pale light. I am struck by how quickly the night dims as the moon shrinks. Only a few days ago, the night shadows were sharp and dense next to the bright swaths of moonlight. Now, all the landscape is soft and vague. It reminds me of drifting off to sleep.

Tonight, I noticed a lump under my cat's chin. It wasn't there before. It might be an abscess, but, given the cat's age, I have to consider the possibility that it is a tumor. That would account for her increased listlessness over the last few weeks. If it grows, I'll have to take her to the vet. That is the thing she hates most in the world. Maybe she senses that, eventually, it will be a one-way trip.

Another Friday is here already. Time flies when you're stuck in a place with gravity.
caillebotte_man at his window

Still

Squirrels are out, gathering acorns while the weather is still mild. They aren't finding many. Every once in a while, I hear one fall onto a roof, but the trees have produced very few this year. The walnut tree has only a small crop, too, and I see fewer cones than usual on the pines. It could be a tough winter for the squirrels and other creatures who depend on nuts for food. Maybe they'll be lucky, and the season won't be too cold, at least. But I recall the worst winters here following the warmest summers, such as we had this year. For the moment, everything seems placid. The air barely stirs, and the still leaves glow with warm afternoon light. It is one of those days when it seems as though things have always been this way, and always will be. A few birds chirp, and small insects hover and dart, flickering the sunbeams. Only the sky changes, as the thin clouds drift slowly toward the mountains. It is difficult to picture the snow that might fall in a few weeks, turning the bare branches white like bleached bones.