TransitMy house is killing pigeons.
I am perhaps overstating it. My house, if nothing else, may simply be a hazard to pigeons, or possibly just annoying. What seems to be happening is that a flock of some twenty pigeons or so have found my roof a useful place to be; I have on occasion come home to see them up there, silent and motionless in the cold air along the line of the gable, a long line of comically puffy gargoyles. Some like to stand on the chimney. I imagine this is why there is an occasionally ghostly cooing in the living room, as their noises echo down the flue. I do not have too much worry that they will come in the house this way; that flue is sealed. I think. There are several flues in that chimney, though, and I believe the one they like is the one from the furnace, spewing hot air as it does. It is chilly up there.
The problem: it isn't really air that flows through that flue. It is carbon dioxide, monoxide, and other assorted unfortunate byproducts that tend to cause birds (what with the metabolisms they have) to pass out. Sometimes upon doing this, they will flop over and down the chute, getting lodged someplace unfortunate. The fear here is that they will then clog up the vent, stopping the draw from the furnace, and soiling the air in here. I have been through that: carbon monoxide poisoning is unpleasant. Not to mention extraordinarily dangerous.
Last time this year, raccoons romped in the walls. This year, pigeons coo in the flue. I am beginning to be wary of Spring.
In a fit of sloth, I opted for the bus this evening with which to make the journey home. A neighbor of mine had left the campus as I did, but walking, and we reached our street at the same time.
The Sky Is Alive With Tiny KnivesAt some point last week, the sun shining and the air sweet, I found myself upon a set of friends who had brought guitars and an accordion out into the afternoon sun. I watched for a moment, then went ambling on, to find my own sources. In parting, one of them mentioned a bet that no more would there be standing snow until next winter. I laughed. It was unkind of me, but I did.
This morning, the forecasters fretted openly about the day's skies; I sat on the porch with a cup and felt the air curl cold. I made it down to the markets a bit earlier than usual, and by then it was beginning to mist. After the walk from my parking space to the heart of the action, it was all decidedly dim, something that was flung into sharp focus my the sheer amount of light that was pouring from the shop window of the cheese counter room. By the time I had managed to get the cheese (rashera, and a bit of stuff for pizzas) and everything else, it was raining ice. Hard.
It was utterly absurd.
The sidewalks were instant rink, even for the frenetic efforts of those armed with brooms, shovels, salt. The Avenue became first slurry, then treachery, traffic easing to a careful plod. My hat was utterly inadequate. Still: there was little to do but wander out into it with squared shoulder, and for all of that it wasn't that bad. I had a big stupid grin on my face by the time I worked my way back up to the cafe by the bakery by the popcorn. After the cafe, what fell from the sky turned thickly to wet, plump, snow, and instantly all became cloaked in charm. It was reason enough to toss everything into the car and take a moment to watch the river roll by, the strange sound of snow on the water.
The drive home was amusing.
I should say up front that I learned to drive in these conditions - my very first lesson was in, if anything, worse weather. Driving around here in this stuff presents a particular set of problems, though, and I found myself plotting out the flattest route home that I could, unwinding grades like the rail engineers did, all those years ago. Added to this calculation was a preference for roads where traffic would be minimal, and people would not be tempted to go faster. It took a long time, but it wasn't taxing, and everything only got prettier as I went.
On a more directed note (should this pass Mr. Hermann's desk): I did have one encounter with a minivan. I was guiding the car along a flat bit of road that, on better days, purports to be two lanes. The single set of aggregate tire tracks betrayed that no one was putting up with that nonsense this afternoon, and I was happy to join that camp. The minivan behind me, not so much.
They were not so stupid as to tailgate, but they very much wanted to be someplace, so at one particularly unbusy bit they passed me, slowly, and I gave them much room. And slowed down further, because it only took them another hundred yards or so before they fished the back end right out from under themselves. But they recovered nicely. And they slowed down, too. And I still gave them plenty of room. And although they might have been on the phone before, they most certainly were not after. So there is hope.
Safe trip home.
Arc TangentLight is the straightest line there is (for sufficiently local values of straight). We've known this for a while. The next time you happen to be in a Gothic Cathedral, look around the floor for a simple plate of burnished brass, small and square. If one is handy, ask the docent the day and time when the plate be comes useful; ask them the day and time when the sun sends light through a tiny window up there, somewhere, to perfectly illuminate that plate. If you are lucky, it might be that day. The reason the builders did that, those years ago, was to give them a tool to see if the building was settling, sliding, shifting into instability. Should that great pile of stone and glass no longer be true, the plate and the sun would betray it.
The seasons are changing, and I have my own evidence: the sun is once again haunting regions of the sky such that it sends shine though the glass in my front door. In turn, the glass fills the foyer with refracted light; a hundred tiny rainbows, climbing the woodwork on the stairs.
The plumber comes tomorrow.
Where The Fires LieMy acquaintance who owns and drives a convertible points out that with a stout hat, a good scarf, and the heater making the most merry that it can, there is a surprisingly large range of weather in which the top can be down. It can be quite cool out, and yet very lovely. I think the main rule is to make sure nothing is falling from the sky, or will be in short order.
I have my own poor corner of that landscape. This evening, I took to taking the car about with the roof open to the sky, cool wind whistling over as I went. It was an invitation to the coming season, a request for haste. It was also nice to have the world coming back in through windows, scrubbing away a bit of the boundary between in here and out there that we find ourselves behind when the cold comes. So I drove, with a little less between me and that, wanting less still. To be sure: I had the heater on.
Life would be difficult to live without memory.
GeraltI have mentioned before the Mario Tennis problem, the sheer strangeness of watching four people play tennis, all in the same direction. I have briefly seen people play Rock Band, and was struck by the odd flow of attention; its a little odd to see a crowd of people cheering on the players by watching television. Some friends of mine went ahead and got a copy, and I got the treat of playing along with them, and some of it was mighty strange.
At first, they handed me a guitar. I've been messing around with the things for a little less than two decades, now, and the instant I strapped it on I knew I was doomed. They have so many of the details right: the frets are there, the trem is where my fingers expect it, and they can also reach for the tone selector unbidden. Of course, the tone selector doesn't do what I expect it to (at least in easy mode) and my left hand stubbornly refused to treat the thing as anything but an actual guitar, replete with phantom strings where my fingers best expected them.
So I sat myself on the couch in front of the drums. This, too, was odd: a couch is not an optimal thing to play drums on. It was strange, too, that the pads weren't in quite the right place: I rapidly gave up on playing cross-arm, and was pleasantly surprised how quickly I learned to translate what I was supposed to be doing to where I was supposed to be doing it.
They handed me the mic - it's been a long time, and today my throat is a bit grumpy with me. In the thick of it, its easy to try for a note, feel shock at finding it, and held it for a bit too long before getting it together enough to jump to falsetto. I have honey for the tea, and that is a wonder. I need practice, I do.
The most remarkable thing about playing the game is how quickly all of that falls away: the thing is relentless. A plunge into real time, a focus falls over. It starts, and there is no pause button, only go.
Such amazing fun!
Today I paid a visit to the little European deli where I go once a year to stock up on the red current jelly I use to make glaze for fruit tarts. I did not need jelly, but instead took a long look at the shelves there, stuffed with foods from places I do not know the menus of. I got some of that: handmade dumplings stuffed with potato and curds, thin smoked polish sausages that snap under the teeth and are handy for travel, other things. Some doors down I purchased a cup of coffee, a varietal unknown to me, prepared in a strange machine. The flavors shone, and when I added cream they shone again.
I need to practice, I do.
ToesThere is a lamp, built into the newell post of the staircase. It used to have an incandescent bulb in there, holding up the wire clips and the simple paper shade. Throwing the switch at night, that one little bulb filled up the foyer with cozy, warm light, tickling notes from the woodwork. There has been a slow steady invasion of CFL in the house, though, and it seemed time to do away with the old and usher in new. I put one on the newell post, and have been taking notes.
It's slow to come to life, the CFL. Upon throwing the switch now the bulb starts timid, casting a low glow that makes the space close. If I did not know the promise of the light to come, I would not like it, but I find the effect of cold engines coming slowly to life not unpleasant. When the bulb finally manages to wake up and stretch, the full effect returns, if perhaps a little bit less warm, but no less cheerful. I can flip the switch when I go to buy milk and return to a welcoming door.
Down at the markets, there is a baker who sets up shop on folding tables, heavy with wonderful things. To one side are simple bags of biscotti bits, broken pieces, ends, that sort of thing. I try to pick up a bag or two, when I go: they make for a remarkable bread pudding. I mentioned this, and they said, sure: people also grind them up and use them for pie crusts (which I must try) and fish batter (which I must try). It is also great fun to just reach into the bag and pull out a few to munch on - as the bag is mixed, one never knows what one will get until it breaks against the teeth.
Stretch your toes, as far as they will go: there is a pot of cocoa on the stove.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Mail accepted for the bears in the basement. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.