Silence. Early and dark. Navigation lights blinking, a planet, a geostationary satellite, a boat across the way heading for the Pass and out into the Gulf. A monster mug of fresh brewed coffee, a thin strip of cornbread cut into five bites each lightly buttered. No sounds of water lapping ashore, meaning we're between tidal shifts, Tyndall's beacon flashing white white - green - - white white - green. A shore bird's shriek breaks the peace. It's how Sunday begins: not with the Sabbath's setting sun, but sneaking in at midnight.  Now and then there's a breath of air moving, and Splash: now and then a mullet jumps. The attention from Singapore continues, which makes me uneasy, so I'll continue while taking care to avoid anything that might make me the target of some crackpot, which, judging by America these days, is half the world's population. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get me, eh? Good old Sunday school Bible ...

  202309230210 CDT. 71° at this dark moment, dropping to 66° by sunrise. Dry for us 73% humidity and ESE breeze at 3 mph making it feel cooler. Early to bed, awake and up way too early, decaf wasn't where I thought it was, so a cup of something too sweet - caramel macchiato, j fer jiminy.  Blogging: in that it's a mental and emotional outlet where one can sit with a keyboard and drain the mind, it's like a diary, or a journal. Though not really, because it's posted on line and publicly shared, and nobody shares their diary or journal, it's personal.  Googled: "The main difference between a diary and a journal is its use. A diary is a book that is used to record daily experiences and events as they happen. On the other hand, a journal is a personal and intimate record of your thoughts, observations, ideas, etc." So, I've used +Time not as a diary but more as a journal. A brain dump, mental exercise of letting out thoughts and feelings, which can be grea...

Breakfast, a slice of that canned Boston Brown Bread that I mentioned here some weeks ago, Philadelphia cream cheese spread on top; and my second mug of hot & black. Part of life, it's all Good.  My first mug of hot & black was just after four o'clock early, out on 7H porch, pitch black dark, clear sky, a planet, a geostationary satellite midway up in the eastern sky over downtown Panama City. Far off to the south, so far beyond the horizon that I couldn't see streaks, glows of lightning that made me wonder, along with my obsessions about World War Two, if it was the explosion of a ship hit by torpedoes from a German u-boat.  And then I remembered yesterday's sushi: I ate mine with raw tuna and salmon draped over; but there's some of the California Roll sushi I bought for Linda because she won't eat my swamp food. Food for marsh-wiggles is poison for humans. Three small slices of California Roll sushi, eleven seconds in the microwave, then soy sauce and ...

  3:11 a.m. For an early morning in late August, the way summer 2023 has been so far, it's surprisingly pleasant out here on 7H porch. 79°F with a fair breeze coming in off the Bay and Gulf. First mug of hot & black and the other half of a peanut butter sandwich Linda made for me after supper soup last evening. Life is Good, and if nobody was hurt or killed in Hurricane Idalia Life is Better, Best. And also, Life is Fun and Good with personal computers, wifi and the web, and modern meteorology that tells us where a storm is going days out, and that gives us weather radar to stay right on top of a hurricane as it makes its way toward us. It's all so different from my growing up days, when everything was guess and wait and see.  On the other hand, it's not Good, much less Better Best, that warming and warmer seas are producing faster and fiercer tropical storms. Though these tropical systems are a natural and normal part of creation's looking after itself, herself, th...

We have a high tide this morning, the Bay is up past its usual and into the grass, but calm.  Gray skies, gray day, not threatening, but I guess those are storm bands from Hurricane Idalia? Otherwise, we got off this Time, though the season is really just ramping up; I mean, Hurricane Michael was in October, eh? 2018, five years ago, and all our landmarks are still so gone that I can't drive at night anymore with any sense of knowing exactly where I am or where to turn. Can't drive after dark anymore anyway; not safely, so can't and don't. Making landfall to the east and south of us as I sit here looking out on a peaceful day. Jim Cantore is broadcasting from Cedar Key, an island community from where most of our oysters come these days - - if memories hold true from our Apalachicola years, of too much fresh water in the Bay, it'll be a while.  Trying to be a good patient anyway, with my closely monitored promise of no raw oysters because of the publicized fibrio thr...

  Tuesday morning early, 3:47 o'clock. From 7H porch, August's second full moon hanging low in the clear western sky just above Thomas Drive. Stars, a stationary satellite winking high and to my left, but lightning in low clouds across the full range of the horizon over the Gulf, far enough off to the south of me that there's no thunder. Some city sounds down the shoreline to the east, and rippling sea sounds in St Andrews Bay at my feet seven floors down. A cool, gentle breeze coming in, and with it the sound of light rain: it may be drizzling, too dark to see and I'm too settled to get up and step over to the balcony rail and hold my hand out. No, I'm sure it's raining. Eleven inches from my nose, the lily-like fragrance of two blossoms on a flowering plant that seems to be thriving out here. Linda's a gardener and makes wherever we are bright with plants and herself. "All the rest have thirty-one" -> August 2023 closing down on us before the ...

  While we seldom or never have them, I do love a baked potato, the whole thing, dark skin and all. Enjoyable "loaded" but good no matter how. Most often with butter, salt and pepper. Linda's step-father Jim Graham told me he ate a baked potato every day, and only put salt and pepper on it. IDK, I probably could do that, although the butter is the final boost into perfection. Maybe a butter-flavored sprinkle would do it? It becomes different altogether if famine is such that there's nothing to eat but potatoes, though, and a dietary problem. That's where the little family is in "The Potato Eaters" painting by   Vincent Van Gogh.  The detail in the painting is exquisite, the worn, cracked edge of the table's boards, the curl in the young man's hair, his gaunt face and fingers, prominent lips and almost protruding eyes; the way the young woman looks at him, is he her brother or her husband, and is that love, lust, adoration, fear, or worry on her f...