rats

Breakfast of TJ's cheese and TJ's fig preserves, all with butter on TJ's crackers from Christmas carefully kept crisp for enjoyment in mid-January, interrupted in mid-bite when I noticed the leftover sushi bought in the commissary yesterday after my haircut, half of the box eaten and the leftover kept overnight in the refrigerator, that I'd set out earlier this morning to recover from over-refrigeration, which ruins sushi: it has to sit out and come to room to recover for delicious eating. So I set TJ aside for later and tackled the sushi smeared with wasabi and dipped in Kikkoman & dash of Tabasco. 

Evolution is real. The sushi I learned to eat and love and at times suffer ravenously for when we lived in Japan in the mid-1960s, has evolved, sushi is evolving. Occasional ravening for sushi is like unto the occasional ravening for oysters on the half-shell that strikes, indeed, both a trait of my Being, as with the walrus and the carpenter enticing the little fellows out of the sea for a walk on the beach, just so, between me and the oysters, if we are so ravenous for each other, why do we have to go out to eat? We can eat right here.

But the evolution of sushi. From my favorite traditional maki and nigiri, California sushi came along, and now traditional nigiri mixed with beautifully rainbowed maki of salmon, tuna, avocado, shrimp, seaweed, rolled and cut to appeal to the eye. Japanese tradition become American eye candy. Such was my breakfast this morning.

This is neither diary nor journal, but yesterday enroute to Tyndall we stopped at Whitehead Plumbing for the cap and tape needed at 7H to close off the valve of that spraying sink supply line that won't completely close; where we headed after haircut, fixed it, then opened the water valve so that now the toilets flush and Linda can water the azalea, lemon tree, orchids and other plants suffering thirstily on 7H porch. With two or three flower buds showing, the azalea, which dates from me as a teenager planting them, pinks with delicate fragrance, in our yard, shows strained promise of recovery from the disaster. I would like it to live again and prosper, but its sibling died and had to be tossed last summer, and the remaining azalea is as much a material thing as am I myself; so, whatever.

Shortly, we head back into Panama City for Clara's funeral service. For errands, at church I have in mind raiding the left closet of the pavilion for the bottom box marked Bibles in order to have them for adult Sunday school in Battin Hall between services tomorrow morning. Except that, come to think of it, rats, it was a really great bible study subject too, there's no adult Sunday school tomorrow, because between services we'll have breakfast, for which Linda is cooking two egg casseroles, and the annual parish meeting. So I don't need that box of bibles so instantly after all. Late as usual, but nevertheless, it comes to me that two plus two is four and not fifteen bibles.

This morning's sunrise: perspectively, as real as life itself, and just as fleeting.

T