Monday, September 27, 2004

And today

we opened the windows -- for the first time in 4+ months -- and are letting the breeze blow through. It is temperate and breezy today, the distant sound of chainsaws like the bawling of calves. Trees are down everywhere, signs are torn up, the occasional house has roof damage and all of them have torn or missing shingles. But the sun is shining through high, scudding clouds, the air is mild and clean, and really, it isn't that bad.

Well, for us. For other folks, it isn't quite as pretty a morning, although the somewhat lower temperatures and breezes are a relief from unremittant heat and humidity if you've lost your power and A/C.

64 for more days and counting.

I keep hearing that song from the movie "The Poseidon Adeventure", which has to be one of the sappiest ear-worms ever, but...

There's got to be a morning after
If we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine
Let's keep on lookin' for the light

Oh, can't you see the morning after?
It's waiting right outside the storm
Why don't we cross the bridge together
And find a place that's safe and warm?

ahhh, the 70's.....

Last night's weird dream involved a couple I know. The woman was sadly informing me that, while staying at their house some weeks before, I had wiped off my lipstick and makeup on a square of very rare heirloom silk. She was tearful and reproachful and I could not understand how it had happened. Then she showed me the fabric.

It was a tissue. White, double layered, with the faintest smudge of pale foundation and some streaks of reddish hue. Even as she held it up, the layers began parting.

She was all about forgiving me if I just showed the appropriate amount of sorrow, grief, and perhaps some sort of compensation. Her husband was confused and obviously embarrassed. I offered to replace the thing and pulled some tissues from a nearby box. She denied they were the same. We held them up close to each other, hers and mine. Tiny, nearly invisible imprints on each were identical. She was crying over a piece of heirloom tissue, and was even shredding it as she cried. Nothing I could say would remedy the situation, so I left. I heard her husband begin yelling at her, and she was pleading that she'd had a difficult childhood.

I've no idea what it means, if anything, or where it came from, but I woke up feeling like I'd spent time with a crazy relative I had to be nice to.

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