Monday Morning Meeting

As the sun came up, well, as the light increased (it's way too cloudy to see the sun) Durwood saw these five doves lined up on the fence.  It seemed like they were waiting for it to get a little lighter before they flew down to feed or drink.  There's another one sitting about 10' to the left but if I'd gotten that one in the shot everything would have been too small and vague so I cut off the "meeting moderator" dove (hey, what else do you call that lone one?) for the sake of the shot.  And, Aunt B, no one cares that your daffodils are still blooming and that there's a cardinal at the feeder near them.  No. One.  Certainly not me who much prefers the gray and dreary freezing rain we're having to that boring warmth and sunshine.  (Not.)

It's a good thing I've set the DVR to record Downton Abbey because I've forgotten about it now two Sunday's in a row.  I realize that as much as I'm interested in the lives of those pretend people I'm not as fascinated as I was when they weren't quite so modern.  I realize that they're just creeping into the 1920s since a scene last night was in a jazz club (a JAZZ club on DOWNTON Abbey???? and homosexuality????  evidently everyone but Mr. Carson and me knew "what Thomas was" [holy bejeebers] but Mr. Bates is out of prison, hooray) but the Victorian clothes were so proper and society was less fraught at least on the surface.  I remembered around 9 o'clock so that's when I turned on the DVR but it was an extended episode so I turned it off at nearly 11.  I'll finish watching later.  I have got to get to bed earlier.

February 11--Nina de Garis Davies, Ramesses III Before Hathor.  Hot.  So hot and dry, like being before a blast furnace.  White cotton the only possible garb.  Louise dreaded putting on her dress.  Cool and damp from her bath, she stood beneath the slowly turning fan feeling the heat rise with the noise from the street and seep into her room.

And that's it for last night.  Hey, it was late but I didn't want to skip writing two nights in a row.  I'm afraid if I stop writing at night I'll stop altogether and never get back to it.  Ever.  I want to dial back the clock and reclaim that nearly impossible to resist urge to write.  I want those ideas so eager to get out that they're falling over one another to come back.  Come back!  Okay, enough whining.  Time for breakfast with the morning paper, showering, dressing, and skating to work on the ice-covered streets.  Eesh.  Take your time today.  Oh, and Happy Year of the Snake!
--Barbara