Saturday afternoon also featured a brief concert by a mockingbird, a pleasant reminder of a happier time when I wasn't particularly happy, but at least it wasn't 2020. I was able to stay outside listening for several minutes, as it was not terribly hot or terribly smokey. I am, however, still quite tired, and thus the nappish event despite my late hour of rising from a somewhat fitful sleep. Right now I'm thinking about fixing something to eat, but I'm not at all sure what to make, having drawn down my ramen supply quite a bit in recent days. It would be very inconvenient to get tired of it.
The forecast is still indicating rain (well, showers) next Saturday, with the odds now up to 60%. It would be nice to get a good soaking, which would help douse the fires, but we probably won't. I'm expecting the big burn to continue into November, and maybe even December. The giant fire to the west is inching up on 1,000,000 acres, and still only 51% contained. In my more pessimistic moments (more common than they once were) I sometimes imagine it still burning in 2021.
It will be necessary for me to venture out this coming week for banking and shopping. There's actually quite a bit to be done, so it might take two trips on two different days. Saturday I'd run a risk of getting wet, so I might aim for Friday, and possibly either Thursday or Sunday. We'll have to see how things turn out. I'm hoping the stores will have some good stuff on sale this week. I've noticed that the first week of the month is often when they have the best selection of sale items. But this is November, and in the past that's often been the best month for sales, thanks to Thanksgiving. One thing I know I won't be buying is a turkey, but I wouldn't mind a pumpkin pie from Safeway.
It feels like it's getting too late for fixing a meal. That means it will probably be ramen again. I'm glad the stuff exists, but I wish it was available in more varieties.
And the Cantilevered Inference Shall Hold the Day
by Michael Blumenthal
Things are not as they seem: the innuendo of everything makes
itself felt and trembles towards meanings we never intuited
or dreamed. Take, for example, how a warbler, perched on a
mere branch, can kidnap the day from its tediums and send us
heavenwards, or how, held up by nothing we really see, our
spirits soar and then, in a mysterious series of twists and turns,
come to a safe landing in a field, encircled by greenery. Nothing
I can say to you here can possibly convince you that a man
as unreliable as I have been can smuggle in truths between tercets
and quatrains on scraps of paper, but the world as we know
is full of surprises, and the likelihood that here, in the shape
of this very bird, redemption awaits us should not be dismissed
so easily. Each year, days swivel and diminish along their inscrutable
axes, then lengthen again until we are bathed in light we were not
prepared for. Last night, lying in bed with nothing to hold onto
but myself, I gazed at the emptiness beside me and saw there, in the
shape of absence, something so sweet and deliberate I called it darling.
No one who encrusticates (I made that up!) his silliness in a bowl,
waiting for sanctity, can ever know how lovely playfulness can be,
and, that said, let me wish you a Merry One (or Chanukah if you
prefer), and may whatever holds you up stay forever beneath you,
and may the robin find many a worm, and our cruelties abate,
and may you be well and happy and full of mischief as I am,
and may all your nothings, too, hold something up and sing.