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January 11th, 2011

pinquillo and tarka

Though we got several inches of snow on Sunday, my Monday commute was easy. My mixer sold for 30 dollars. I'll mail it out tomorrow. I feel badly for people who are hurt or fall ill "before their time".

I received two recorders in the mail from La Paz, Bolivia. One is a deep, hoarse tarka flute, and the other is a lighter, breezy pinquillo. I bought a book of Patti Smith's later poetry. The sky is not yet falling, even if they give Chicken Little a cable program and an AM radio station. I'd rather have chicken than canned chicken of the sea. Budget digital cameras get cheaper and cheaper. Television gets more and more irrelevant. The internet, it seems, is dead--everyone read about it on-line. Elsa was a cool cat. I used to love to sing the song "Born Free". My dog eats crayons. I think Bea stole an English muffin from my plate this evening, but I lack definitive proof. I like the feel of alpaca wool. I want to scan all my 110 pictures from my 1980 trip to London into digital files. Tomorrow I must fire up that chess software to make sure I know how to use it. I am sitting next to a large orange ladder. I believe there is something in Loch Ness, but I don't believe in supply-side economics. I prefer bread to circuses. I threw a snowball over our wooden fence. The temperature is supposed to be 19 tonight. I wish someday that in the safe at someone's house who is completely innocent, they found a message: peace on earth, good will to all.

chips ahoy

A cold winter's night, a good mystery, oven-fried chicken, fascinating images on the internet. If I could do it all again, perhaps I'd have joined the Coast Guard for a few years out of college. The snow lingered on, a bit, another day, but will be all melted tomorrow.

I heard on the radio today about an earth-like planet orbiting a distant star. The planet was too close to its star for cool comfort. I like living in the first chapter of a science fiction novel.

I used the word "tench" today. I wonder about the phrase "slippery when wet".

Everyone uses madness as a literary metaphor. Then sometimes madness seems much less literary. The deranged man who shot Congresswoman Giffords makes me think a lot about people whose medical condition increases their risk of harming others, and of the waves of untreated mental illnesses of all kinds.