It’s a cold night Carpinteria. Another night for the hoodie. Fortunately, there’s a concert honoring James Taylor on PBS, and I’ve got that to keep me warm. (I have heat in my condo, but I’m trying to keep it to a minimum. It’s radiant – big electric elements in the ceiling, which work fine but run up the bill like crazy.)

 

I love James Taylor. Not personally, but his music. He’s such an artist. Unpretentious, honest, with a clean delivery.

 

Speaking of clean, I got my carpets cleaned today. Which means the little dove-gray patch in the living room, where Tasha used to have her little bed, is gone.

 

The end of the world as we knew it.

 

I used to hear people mention the end of the world, and I was naive enough to think it was a single event in time and space, which odds suggested I would not live to see. How could I have known I would live to see it arise in benign morning, pass the day in angry silence on my porch, and walk off with my treasurers into weedy dust and dusk, again and again.