Ah, another night frittered away on teh Intraweb. That's the problem with these cool nights. Sluggo can run for hours on end without crashing, and I sit here shivering, my fingers growing numb, as I immerse myself in the endless wrack of web sites washing up on the monitor. It's a crazy old hoarder's attic, is what it is! It's virtual piles of stuff stacked to a virtual ceiling, cramming every corner of an ever expanding virtual space, trash mixed indiscriminately with treasure--- just one huge, chaotic, perhaps even chthonic, collection of cultural detritus, and all of it threatening to topple down on my brain at any moment! I'm going mad! Mad, I tell you!
Yes, I think I'd better go outside for some darkness, before it gets chased away by the sunrise.
Once again, the lawn has been relieved of its colorful garb of fallen leaves. I'd like to leave them there, but the lawn threatened to die unless it was allowed to lie naked, basking in the sunlight. Lawns are demanding, self-important creatures, with little regard for the welfare of others. This is why they thrive best at country clubs and in posh suburbs. I apologize to the trees. If I had my way, the lawn would be replaced by wild plants- those freedom-loving denizens of bosky forest glades. But it is not my lawn. The lord of the suburban manor gets his way.
To the north, the gap created by the recent removal of two tall ponderosas reveals a smaller, younger pine growing in a more distant yard. It pleases me to know that it is there. As yet but half-grown, should it be allowed to survive, it will one day tower above the small houses as its vanished brethren so recently did, lifting the horizon and making the commonplace works of man in its shadow seem bigger than they actually are. May its roots be strong and delve deep, to carry aloft the mere dirt that, mingled with water and light, will be transformed into true grace and power.