It’s a perfect morning. Or at least close to one. My shower was hot and lengthy and I used the shampoo that tingles. My omelet was perfect, coming out of the pan with an easy flip, I even made toast this morning because I’d had an inspiration to pick up some
good rye bread and somehow rye bread makes the best toast, harking back to late nights with friends in diners.
The birds are chirping, the neighbour’s neighbour’s neighbour’s dog is barking, so as to be pleasantly distant and intimating a feeling of community and childhood rather than the mindless aggression a closer canine would imply. I can hear someone working in their yard since it’s one of those pleasant Tuesdays in February with a high of 70 degrees… and I’ve been reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy which I haven’t done in a very, very long time… which has given me a pleasantly hysterical but slightly optimistic, relaxed frame of mind that I would probably associate with illegal herbage if I’d ever partaken in such.
Yeah. It’s a perfect morning, assuming I don’t think TOO much about money, politics, timeline for the new CD, mastering, my health, Kristen’s health, Life, the Universe or ANYTHING.
Yeah. It’s a perfect morning for as long as I can simply sit here and appreciate it. The birds are counterpointed by the typing, which is all underlined by the gentle hiss and ring of bands of hearing that I haven’t QUITE protected over the years. It all blends and then is interrupted as there’s movement upstairs. Kristen’s astir which means that it’s almost time for my perfect morning to blend on into the action of an imperfect day, because that means we’ve got to get up and attack the world of folk music.
