wind watch


We are under a Wind Watch. So this morning I watched the wind. It was snowing and the world outside looked like a snow globe shaken by a vicious god. The relentless wind blew the flakes in every direction, hardly ever allowing them to touch the ground. The vent on the skylight rattled, and I found a feather that had blown in through it and landed on the bathroom floor.

I listened to Fahey’s “America” and watched the frenetic flakes dance outside the window to the rich, odd twanging of steel strings. The coffee went down smooth, as did Heinrich’s ruminations on a winter spent in Maine’s woods. There was a certain synchronicity to my morning that doesn’t often visit.

I fed the birds and repotted a few plants. I recorded my dreams of the night before. Everything seems to be in order, for the moment.

Empty nest syndrome

Beehive stencil under the bridge near the post office

Mysterious “4” stencil

Evidence of stenciling activity

More “4” stencil action

No loitering under the bridge! Two weird mysteries noted under the bridge: 1) a bike had obviously been ridden through the mud (there were fresh tracks), and at the end of the bike tracks lay the bike itself (a crappy Pacific mountain bike); and 2) an entire swingset was set up under the bridge, not looking abandoned but like it was intentionally set up to be used. No other evidence of life forms.

That’s all I’ve got, except to say that this website is hilarious! I love it!


I desperately needed time in the woods today. Lately there had been too much time spent in urban centers, too much time spent in cars, too much plane travel, too much time away. I find it necessary to stay in tune with what the birds are doing. I find comfort in their activities. The simple beauty of their lifestyle makes sense to me. I hear the sweet rhythm in how they live. But when I turn my ear to my fellow human beings I hear erratic discordant noise. The unpredictability of it all sets me on edge. I watch the birds search for food and then I watch people drive faster and faster in metal boxes along strips of pavement. Where is the sense in that? Birds seek food and shelter, they travel to warmer climes for winter, and back north again to raise families. People walk through the woods, coarse and loud, talking crassly on their cell phones. We violate the places where wildlife struggle to make their homes, over and over in increasingly egregious ways. When I enter the woods, I think of it as a chapel. Here we are silent, here we are respectful, here we do our best to make a minimal impact. Here we observe quietly. The birds are easier to see in the fall as the trees shed their leaves. But it’s harder to sneak up on them, when you are crunching on those fallen leaves. It was a perfect day to be in the woods. The golden light spread through the trees and fell upon everything below. I soaked it up. I rested and recovered. I breathed deep. And then I strode unwillingly back out into the madness.


I’ve been assaulted all week by a horrid cold that is reluctant to unhand me. Today I’d hoped to make the recovery needed to take a birding trip tomorrow, but instead I woke to find that the cold had triggered my asthma, which had been lying quietly dormant since early summer. Hooray. I haven’t ridden my bike since last Friday, and that was only a quick jaunt down to the post office and back. I haven’t commuted on it in over a week, and I haven’t taken it on one of my mandatory restorative rides into the country for two weeks. No wonder I am out of sorts. I have been sickly and stagnant and increasingly cranky. The antidote applied this afternoon was good mail read in the sunny post office parking lot. Just in the nick of time.


Fridays are invariably weird days for me. The primary reason for this is that I do not work on Fridays. Ever. Which isolates me from the majority of society that does work on Friday. A typical Friday for me transpires thusly: rise anywhere from 7:30-9:30 AM; make coffee and breakfast then eat and drink leisurely in front of the gigantic windows in the living room; sometimes then I’ll shower so that I feel like I am more formally starting the day; after that I often start some laundry and then dick around on the internets for awhile; for the past couple of months I’ve been doing some pro bono indexing for an organization whose board I’m on so I usually work on that for a few hours in the afternoon; at some point I begin to get incredibly stir crazy and so I force myself out of the house, usually on the pretense of checking my PO box down the street; if I’m lucky there’s something in there other than junk mail for the previous renters (today there was a zine from Kurt; thanks, Kurt, even though you have no idea that this blog even exists); if I’m feeling really brave I then ride my bike over to Whole Foods and get groceries (this happens very rarely); or I might go to Whole Foods to get quarters for laundry (I like to use them as my bank since the closest branch of my bank is farther than I feel like riding just to go to the bank); back at home, I might do some more indexing, finish laundry, or if the weather is really nice like it was today, go running; between five and six is when my sweetheart usually gets home and so then we attempt to plan our evening. By this point in the day, I am usually feeling and often acting somewhat insane, but bless her heart, she takes it all in stride.

The main thing about Fridays that usually makes me so crazy is that I hardly talk to anyone. Today was unusual in that I went to the bike shop and talked for almost 10 minutes to a guy I know who works there. Beyond that my interactions with people today have been limited to my request for quarters from the Whole Foods Customer Service person. You would think that I could somehow fix this problem, but most people work on Fridays so I’m kind of screwed. That’s why most of my interpersonal contact on Fridays comes from some sort of retail exchange.

This happens over and over and over again like clockwork every Friday. I’m hoping that the warm weather will help things because then I will just go ride a metric century on my bike every Friday, come home, eat like a horse, then go to sleep at 7 PM, which is when the typical witching hour begins.

Okay, before I go try to figure out what to do with myself this evening I just wanted to mention one other thing. I used to have a blog on Xanga, and I must say I liked Xanga better than I like Blogger. Sure, the place is overrun with preteens, but at least they sometimes randomly comment on your blog and you can have some fun back-and-forth with them. No one on Blogger seems to randomly comment on blogs. I think part of the reason for this is that it’s almost like it’s set up to keep you isolated from other bloggers. You can’t search the damn site; all you can do is hit that stupid “Next Blog” button, which inevitably pulls up some Cyrillic gibberish or maybe some Eastern European mom’s photo page for her kid. And you can’t subscribe to other people’s pages like you can on Xanga, so how are you supposed to easily get back to other pages? I’m certainly not going to bookmark every freaking Blogger page I might like. I guess I could do the RSS feed thing but that’s not as good as having subscriptions built into the site. I originally thought that moving to Blogger would be a good thing; I somehow had this perception that it was a more grown-up type of blog site, but now I just think it’s kind of lame. I think I just miss the interactive quality of Xanga. Anyway, I just had to get that off my chest.

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