March 17th, 2004

caillebotte_man at his window

Double Entry Journalkeeping

Since last I looked, I have been moved from the Ribeye cluster to something called the Indigo cluster. How very... Duke Ellington. I like that. Tonight, the sky was deeper than indigo, but certainly blue. Winter's nights pale toward spring, and against the color of the sky the starlight, too, seems more blue. The nights are charged with energy, for a while, before summer's torpor sets in. As my favorite time of year has arrived early, I am spending as much time as possible enjoying it, knowing that what arrives early may depart early as well. In fact, this is the first time in years that the nights have been warm enough for comfortable star watching while the sky is yet unobscured by new leaves. It is a bonus that this weather has coincided with the time of the waning moon. Lying on the lawn in this deep darkness, watching Jupiter pass from east to west, I can almost feel the axial turning of Earth, and sense the great mass of it beneath me being flung through space, all its hurtling weight no more than a speck in that vastness. Heh. I feel like Leonardo DiCaprio.

Because the day was warm yesterday, Sluggo was temperamental and didn't allow me to post an entry, but I did get it written, and managed to save it to the clipboard before the inevitable crash. I failed to post it again a couple of hours ago, and it has taken quite a while to catch up on my reading, so I'm just going to tack it onto the end of this post -- without re-reading it, since that would inevitably lead to (shudder) editing.

Last Night's Delayed Entry:

Night Waking

I'm picturing the river running through the canyon. These warm days must have begun melting the abundant accumulation of snow which blankets the high mountains, and the frigid water will be flowing swiftly, gathering winter's detritus of leaf and twig and branch, washing the riverbanks clean, sending all swirling into the lake. I'm picturing the water darkling with starlight, the fish leaping into air still evening warm, and plunging back into cool depths full of long-passed storms. The mile to the river is filled with growing, the soft soil and matted roots of new grass gradually releasing hoarded heat for the breeze to carry, the brush rustling with nocturnal beasts, hawks like swift, disembodied shadows surveying the dark ground, the owls perched on pine branches, the deer grazing quiet glades. I sense all the gathered night and its unseen life as clearly as I see bright Venus, the lamp of approaching spring.
caillebotte_the balcony

Sober

As my parent's wedding anniversary coincides with Saint Patrick's Day, this is always a busy day. Various and sundry relatives drop by, and there is cake. Afterwards, dishes are washed. Then I get to go out into the cool evening and have some time to myself. Tonight, there is no sound of frogs. Have they really fallen silent so soon? Perhaps their ponds have dried up already. If I were to go further afield, visiting the rushy banks of live streams, I might hear frogs. I miss them.