tributary

Friends, and I hope I can accurately use the plural, I hate that I do not—recently—update this blog. It should be a tidal surge of surety, that’s my vision. PECAVVI!

So here, now, I ruminate.

Last weekend was a wash. We lost power, due to a storm dropping a few inches of snow (after mucho rain) onto trees still fledged. The power went at 3am, with broken trees, returned on Monday 3pm. I was myself under the weather, sorethroaty and sleep-needy. I gave Erin a few hours of homework help, albeit I dozed off somewhere in the midst.

Internet, our eternal friend disappearified for 4 days, which was a ruction. What up with the Patriots? Well, I did not need to know, losers. More importantly, how can Erin do his schoolwork, internetified ass it is? Sigh,l but we weathered.

Yesterday, Beth confirmed that she was thoroughly under similar weather as I. Erin likewise. Beth and I set off Saturday not exactly morning for a vital Costco run. It is Christmas there. An upgrade of phones next. Theoretically, our 4 phones (we have a spare lines) were due for magical upgrade. A call to enemy headquarters, id est Verizon, informed us that only 3 of these lines were due for upgrade. The scumbags, pardon the French, were almost resolute against believing the error was theirs. Beth won after a mere hour plus of lifetime resisting the resistant.

Today we had to scramble off for food for the betta, who survived a chilly weekend last week, glaring at me anxiously. And food for the mighty kitty, thus avoiding any conversations regarding his lack of food and our blind duty towards him. And finally, visited an artist open house.

The town’s official artists opened their studios this weekend to visitors. We visited someone we knew. She has a neat studio and lovely work, and her husband 30 some grapevines, mostly hybrids adapted for the local climate but a few cabernet sauvignon that he has managed to winter over for several years now.

I have, for the past 4 or 5 weeks, been writing a book. A real book with lots of pages. It is plainly autobiographical, but Joseph Campbell’s Masks of God 4-ology is enlighteningly appropriate. I have read at it afore, but it now seems vitally vital. And Jung seems helpful too. I write of my family and life, but I want a transferral, a joining with reader. The story grows in the telling. Thus and so.