January 3rd, 2006

munkacsy_parc_monceau

Nocturnal Tumult

Wind makes the pines howl and shout. The stars remain obscured. The wind is layered. At the ground, the air barely stirs, and the last week's fallen mulberry leaves lie still. I stand clear of the house and the sheltering growth, and cold gusts ruffle my hair and chill my face. It is not an unpleasant cold. A few feet higher than my head, the tops of the taller evergreen shrubs frequently rustle and chatter, even when I feel only the slightest brush of air on my cheek. Higher still, the pine branches sing constantly, and the tops of the trees, dimly silhouetted against the eastern sky's growing paleness, wave and bow, gesticulating like an enraptured choir. But even the tallest of the leafless oaks stand mute, a mere quivering of their bony twigs the only response to the surging waves of ecstatic air. I wait to see what strew of brown needles upon the ground dawn exposes, and how the pines glow a more tender green by their rough removal.
Hopper_Night_Windows

Lost

The storm has chosen to defy the predictions of the weather bureau, and has parked itself directly overhead, bringing the region another day or drear celestial weeping. Were I still accustomed to going for daily walks, I'd be getting irritated about now, but since the destruction of my schedule has long since brought an end to my (sorely missed, by the way) former ritual, I've nothing left to lose from day after day of pleasantly dismal rain.

I am, however, currently irritated nonetheless, by another loss. In the cramped chaos of my dwelling space, I am unable to find certain USGS maps long in my possession, of which I find myself in want. This means I must either forgo the map-requiring project I had in mind, or I must take some time to dismantle the haphazardly arranged accumulation of objects among which the maps are now concealed. This tiresome chore is one I greatly dislike, and it always ends up taking longer than I expect.

I'm having strange dreams of late, but not remembering more than the merest fragments of them. Of course, this limited memory means that I can't be sure that I'm not actually having rather ordinary dreams containing a mere few memorable fragments. Still, I'd like to see inside that room the door of which was tantalizingly ajar, and find the source of the music I heard briefly before today's commonplace waking world intruded.

Why do so many things get lost?