snow & gunpowder

French melodies from Camille wafting down the freeway. Took a walk through my neighborhood late this morning and met a lovely Indian gardeness named Sicily.  I'd often seen her peacock-shaped pine bush and lovely tomato plants while strolling past and had never had the honor of meeting the person responsible until today.  She showed us her "yasmine" plant that was just budding and would be a powerfully fragrant blossomer tomorrow.  Sicily and Zacharias (her husband) are in their 49th year of marriage. Sicily informed me that there is a duplex next door to her that is being renovated, and will need a new tenant at the time of its completion.  Upon inquiring inside, I came to discover that the owning couple - who are also the renovators - are people I'm already acquainted with, thanks to a community-group we attended together once or thrice about a year ago.  They are lovely people, and I'm very excited about the prospect of renting from them.  They'd live

This evening finds me reading Milton Crawford's The Hungoevr Cookbook .  "I was left in no doubt about the severity of the hangover when a cat stamped into the room." - P.G. Wodehouse.  Cardamom Porridge with Spicy Apple Sauce.  How painfully lovely hangovers could be... On the note of alcoholic beverages, I was informed of / invited to a cocktail festival in the Paris of the Plains.  Late August.  Booking my calendar.  Perhaps a train trek?  Perhaps. Caffe breve in hand.  Bed calling to me.  Paradoxical nothingness.   I need to write .