Can it get any better than this? A bird calls and there is sunshine on a flagstone terrace overlooking a half acre of garden. And there is NO humidity. None. It's probably 72 degrees with a slight breeze. Bill is in the kitchen. Just made another pot of coffee and is decrying the state of the post office, the corruption of corporations and government, expressing disappointment in Obama. We agree we are all fucked. And what about the post office? A clerk told him they couldn't possibly have delivered the quantity of mail that'd piled up in a plastic tub during that week in New Hampshire. Far too much mail to deliver to the house in one load, they said, too heavy, this whole tub of mail.
"Aging art history professor arrested during confrontation with postal clerk." Have a quiet pill.
I'm having coffee in one of Elita's divine red cups. She gifted me with one of these cups on another visit. Bill is sorting the mail inside at the kitchen table amid more dialogue about the state of the world. Another plane flies overhead, on its way from Westchester County or perhaps circling toward LaGuardia.
"Liberal Republican from NY, Jacob Javits, patron of the arts. Remember him? He said 'Don't mess with the military. Too many jobs, too much money.'."
There's that bird calling again, its species not yet extinct. I see a pair of cardinals fly across the garden. There is traffic below, another plane headed south.
"Louie Armstrong said, 'Don't fuck with my hustle.' "
We are fucked. Yet, this morning, I am happy to be here on this terrace with no humidity and the day stretching on ahead. Elita will appear soon. It's 10:01 a.m.