The day itself is perfect, not the events of the day. The events are the usual dull round, but the weather makes up for that. In the low seventies, breezy, bright sunshine, the air like silk brushing aginst the skin; it couldn't be more pleasant. I am reminded of days spent exploring the hills on the edge of the neighborhood where I grew up; sliding down steep slopes on big sheets of cardboard, chewing the stems of wild fennel plants, sitting and looking out across the valley toward the mountains above Pasadena. Each day of weather such as today's is a storehouse of such moments. I am amazed by an air.