It might be. I am looking out at a gentle gray sky, listening to a powerful leaf blower blasting small leaves down the street, and longing for the days before mechanization. There’s a wind, and a chill, and a child with a cough.
Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to muster up a podcast. We’re going to try tomorrow, praying that the stars will align for all the regular work of the day to be dispatched without incident, giving us that elusive gift of “free time” I’ve heard so much about.
What a ridiculous expression, “free time.” There isn’t anything free about Time. It is constraining, inexorable, relentless, as powerful as the leaf blower outside. It doesn’t wait or stop or give any margin for breath. Every moment of it costs something in some other direction.Unless I’ve misunderstood the word “free” which is a certain possibility.
Anyway, enough about that. The leaves outside my window, though falling, have not been blessed in death with any beauty. They are just crumbling to the ground like civilization itself. It’s too bad. But there you are. Maybe next year.
Better that I now go and face the week, which has come, as expected, with the usual pile up of problems and work. Later I will sit down and ignore reality by finishing Pigs Have Wings, which, if you pick it up sometime, will tell you this important information,
“Ambrosia Chiffon PIe is the stuff you make with whipped cream, white of egg, powdered sugar, seed grapes, sponge cake, shredded coconut and orange gelatin, and it had been planned by the backsliding Baronet as the final supreme gesture of independence. A man who has been ordered by his fiancée to diet and defiantly tucks into Ambrosia Chiffon Pie has formally cast off the shackles.”
Have lovely day if that’s the sort of enterprise you’re into.