No Shame
How nice to live in a beautiful safe place. And quiet. Cool, gentle breeze right now. The citrus blossoms have finished, so their lovely fragrance is missing, in fact there’s no smell at all out here on my front porch at the moment, not even salt sea. Linda’s newspaper hasn’t come, is later than usual. It’s my job to walk down the steps to get the paper once it’s thrown, so this morning I’m sitting here thinking and typing while waiting. More typing than thinking. I would say the fingers have a mind of their own, but they don’t, and anyway why should the poor fingers get blamed for this nonsense.
If the eye is quick maybe this is the morning to find out whether the carrier is on foot, bicycle, or drive by as I think.
Remember the newspaper boy on foot, with a canvas bag full of papers slung over his shoulder? In my growing up years he navigated a sandy, rutty Massalina Drive on bicycle. Seems to me that young Joe Crowell, Jr. in Our Town was on foot. After high school, Joe won a scholarship to MIT and was going to be an engineer, but he was killed in France during The War. As the stage manager said, all that education for nothing.
The sky is lightening up a bit, a tiny streak of orange over the Gulf. And the lights of a boat across the Bay, headed west, probably toward the Pass, maybe going out fishing.
Sky is pinker and lighter, nice wide streak of pink all the way across the southern sky, and there’s a bird chirping loudly. The early bird gets the worm? That bird’s not fooling anyone, this is the half light of dawn when birds have their little extramarital trysts. Yesterday a bird couple built a nest in one of Linda’s flower baskets hanging on our back porch. You can guarantee that the eggs will have mixed parentage. Maybe that’s nature’s protection of the species.
We live in a strange world, at least an odd nation. No point in letting either the mind or the fingers write about shame, it’s already being covered: that’s what everyone else is writing about this morning. Newtown, the Senate, a disgraced justice of the peace man and wife in Texas charged with murdering a prosecutor and his wife and another prosecutor, don’t even think about Boston, or the nut case in Mississippi who sent poison letters to his senator and the President.
No need for God in the Big Bang, Stephen Hawking tells a packed house at CalTech.
Fully light, still no newspaper, and the last sip of coffee in my Life is good mug is cold.
Wordsmith's word for the day: doubting Thomas.
I resent that.
Tom in +Time
I resent that.
Tom in +Time