Storm brewing
Quiet space in the rain
Citrus
Wet and stormy outside. Sun inside. 
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
-Wallace Stevens
Falling softly
He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
-James Joyce
on time
My neighbor Helen gave me this Christmas cactus shortly before she died. I remember her for lots of things, including a stellar collection of embroidered handkerchiefs, but what has most stayed with me is how she watched my kids’ antics from her table at her kitchen window with a benevolent and amused gaze.
It’s a miracle to me how this plant knows to come to life the same week every year. There’s a metaphor there, but more to the point it’s a lovely reminder to approach trouble (ball in the garden, brawl under the basketball hoop, crash on the tricycle) with a graceful detachment that simply says “life has its ups and downs and we need not get too caught up in it all.”
My own parents are like this, particularly my mother. This admirable quality is widely shared by her generation, who saw making or reacting to trouble as a self-indulgent exercise. They had better things to do.
“do not get that tank”
Warriors score another win tonight while simultaneously the Berkeley City Council hosts a vigorous public debate about the new police vehicle. I love where I live
and then there were berries
I don’t know — it looks like the hand of god was somehow involved in the single late fall berry I found on a bush walking back to the house where I’m staying in Pt. Reyes.
No False Alarm
According to the CDCR (California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation) officer who conducted the volunteer training at San Quentin last night, you must wear a whistle at all times. Why a whistle?
As she said, “there are no false alarms with a whistle.”
You blow that thing, and they come running.
Suspicious Package
One of the best things to happen all day today was the e-mail from the CHP about how they’d closed off one of the streets near my office and — not to worry — “law enforcement is in the process of mitigating the suspicious package.”
I’m pretty sure that means “the cops would love to blow up the backpack they found in front of Philz, but that’s pretty loud for the middle of the day, so they’re trying to figure out some mellower way to get rid of it.” Or else:
Cop #1: Poke it with a stick, man.
Cop #2: No, YOU poke it with a stick.
Lillian Hamrick 