No, that's not some dread disease, it's Daylight Savings Time. We switched the clocks from "real" time to "fast" time last Saturday night (way earlier than in previous years, it seems to me) and once again I'm totally cranky about the whole thing. First, losing that hour makes the next day one in which I am never sure what time it is. I'm not hungry at mealtime and I'm not sleepy at bedtime. And it was nearly full dark when my alarm went off this morning. See this? This is how light it was an hour after I got up to do yoga, drink coffee (oh, blessed coffee), and blog. One. Hour. I despair to think that someone imagines that changing the time, taking an hour of daylight from the morning and plonking it in the afternoon makes MORE daylight. Yeah, it doesn't. It only shifts it, people, you can't MAKE daylight, the sun does that. The angle of the tilt of the planet helps too and where it is in its annual rotation around the sun is also a factor. No amount of fiddling with clocks will make one minute, one nanosecond more daylight. Sheesh. Leave the clocks alone. Stop screwing around with my circadian rhythm.
I also could not budge the glacier at the end of the driveway. Twenty-four hours of above freezing temps and rain reduced it but (as Durwood and DD reminded me) the ground's still frozen so the ice is still firmly stuck to the cement. Saturday night's rain carved a channel in it so that the lake at the end of the driveway trapped behind last week's chopping success drained but I probably didn't manage to move enough ice to chill a keg of beer, maybe not even a 12-pack's worth. One good thing was that I sprinkled salt on top of the ice so that when I did have to walk across it, the surface was softer and mushier so it wasn't like walking on greased glass. One of these days my fears will be realized and I'll slip and crash on that ice, then I'll really be pissed about the weather and getting old. See, that's why I try to keep myself moving so that my balance doesn't get any worse so I remain upright. Most of the time anyway.
March 11--Mexico, Fipple Flute. On Thursday morning on her early walk to the cafe she heard the soft lilt of a flute. It seemed to beckon her down the side of the plaza. She walked past the old cathedral with its saints standing guard on high and it pulled her down a street with pepper trees arching overhead. The music drew her on with its soft notes, now accompanied by the fragrance of burning sage and pinon. She stopped in front of an old house with a dirt yard. In the center an old man sat on a low stool playing a pottery flute in front of a smoking brazier. She stood in the shade not wanting to interrupt him but he blew a final trill and turned to smile at her. "I made coffee. Would you like a cup, senorita?" She nodded and stepped into the sunlit yard.
Enjoy your Monday. Think of me sitting in perfect solitude (most of the day) knitting and keeping the world safe from SCUBA diving. Ta-ta!