weather eye

Rain-Wet Yellow

Bright spring visitor.

Just as Boxnoggin and I were approaching this small clump of bright flowers, a hummingbird zoomed up, thought about having a snack, saw us, visibly wondered if it should fight, forgot what it was doing, and zipped away.

I stood flabbergasted, having thought it far too cold for such a sighting. (Boxnoggin was more than willing to fight, though somewhat confused at the size of his prospective opponent.) But I guess the birds know best–I haven’t seen a single bee yet, even on the few sunny days where the temperature hits 60F.

Awful cheerful to see jonquils and primroses and cherry blossoms and hyacinth buds. Winter is my favorite season, but this is nice too. The mud feels different and the rain is still piercing, yes–but cold with a promise instead of a sting. I’ve tried my hardest to eradicate all my hope–I hate getting kicked in the teeth time and again, I’d rather expect nothing–but it’s a weed, and this is its season.

Ah well. To all things their due time.

Se you next week, my beloveds.

Coffee, Easy Enough

It’s a very damp Monday; the time change is sucker-punching me. I love it in fall–who doesn’t enjoy an extra hour of sleep?–but in spring…ugh, ugh, ugh. Good thing it’s raining. My soul expands with every drop hitting the roof, let alone sodden earth and gleaming pavement. Gutters are busy, storm drains full of rushing, and if there’s any of winter’s doldrums left they’re about to be dissolved and washed free. (Oh, and the latest Reading with Lili is up on YouTube for your enjoyment.)

There are some good things about springing-forward, I suppose. It’s an invitation to shake things up, reorient a bit. My office is cleaner than it’s been in a while–I haven’t done a cleaning purge in quite some time, and once one is past the initial “argh, do I really have to do this” phase and the “dear gods, it’s messier than it was when I started, what the hell” bit, everything starts to come together and one can breathe again. All the extra space is lovely.

Of course, I probably have to get the garage rearranged at some point in the next few months too. You can imagine my sardonic tone while typing “that’ll be fun, won’t it.”

Boxnoggin likes the having-dinner-early part of time change, but he is extremely reluctant for the get-out-of-bed bit. The water pouring from the sky during the first loo session of the day didn’t help; the poor fellow regards me as an inscrutable goddess in charge of every item, no matter how mundane, and dear heavens he does not see the point of me making it rain.

I could tell him I’m not responsible, but he wouldn’t believe me and in any case, to him plenty of my actions are so powerful and incomprehensible that any explanation will only stress him out further even if I could express it over the species divide. So he simply trusts that I have my reasons for making it cold and wet, and I make sure he gets toweled off and fed as the situation requires.

He even gets a dab of bacon grease in his bowl this morning, which should soothe the sting.

I’m aiming for calm these days. I had a whole blog post planned about that particular life lesson, but instead I’ve been nattering about the weather and the dog. Ah well, there’s always tomorrow–I’ve got to get some breakfast down for both of us, get the washing machine going, and start the week. I’m trying a few schedule changes to bolster the changes I want to make. The most difficult part is getting over the initial hill to make a habit stick. I can’t decide if small habits or large ones are easier to start or maintain. There seems to be a complex sliding scale of difficulty in the whole affair, which I suppose is part of being mortal.

It’s not a bad state, despite being extremely friable and frustrating. There are a few pleasures to be had.

One of those is the coffee I’m about to finish. At least the morning jolt is one habit I can keep, and it doesn’t take much brainpower to get through making it. This doesn’t mean there haven’t been notable instances of difficulty, naturally. But all in all, coffee’s easy enough.

It’s everything else that’s gonna kick my ass today. But at least I’ve got a fighting chance, and I’m up early enough to grab the beast’s tail.

Let’s just hope we get along…

Preparing the Ground

Under the ice, the green lingers.

Pretty much all the powder is melted. The snow was so dry that its compacting during melt turned into a particular type of granular ice, and lingered in shaded corners. The moss is having a wonderful time with this, since even if it’s chilly it’s also damp, and they love the wet to near-distraction.

These lumps of moss are actually a coat over some scalloped concrete, and you can see how thick the velvet is. Also, the pine needles and detritus deserve a round of applause for providing nourishment. Everything works together, even on a bare stony surface.

I’m attempting to feel hopeful today. That’s probably why I’ve been so obsessed with Bryophyta lately–even under the worst conditions it finds a way to flourish, and prepares the ground for later growth. One can take a lot of comfort in that.

Have a wonderful weekend, my beloveds. Mine will be spent with proofreader queries, but that’s a small price to pay. I might get half a day off and some tiramisu…but I’ve got to get through the work first.

Guarding the Doors

Snow is still lingering in patches, but I’m betting the pavements will be much clearer. We had bands of snow and sun yesterday, the weather unable to decide what it wanted and my sinuses throbbing like a particularly dedicated marimba band. Boxnoggin will be very happy for a longer ramble; yesterday’s had to be cut short because of his tender paws, albeit not nearly as short as previous ones where we barely got halfway down the hill. And forget running outside, despite my hopes! It was the treadmill or nothing.

The yard is still a shambles. That’s a problem for another day. Week. Month. Whatever.

I’m slowly getting my fire back under me. It’s difficult, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. If I can just get one particular problem sorted, my productivity will skyrocket. Unfortunately that problem is one that has developed over multiple years and I’m going to have to wait a wee bit longer to get it done up–assuming anyone will listen to me, the person actually doing the work, about what’s necessary to fix it.

I’m not sanguine about that. I suppose part of my hesitation could be a persecution complex, but is it really a complex when the entire industry’s set up to be exploitative? I dunno. I’m bracing myself to be ignored or derided once more, which is hardly the most productive mindset for problem-solving. I recognize this, yet there’s only so much battering even the sunniest optimism can take before it goes underground and leaves cynicism, not to mention apathy, to guard the doors.

On a (much) brighter note, I was pleasantly surprised at a throwaway name in Hell’s Acre turning into a really satisfying (to me) character homage. (Look, I love Jason Statham, all right?) And Sevring the valet has become a quite crucial minor character, which I never expected but is quite useful as I’m tying things up and getting ready to write the climax. I still don’t know who’s going to win the combat scene I’m currently constructing, so I’ll probably be blocking it out mentally while Boxnoggin prances. I mean, I have plans no matter who wins, but I really would like the valet to catch a break…even though he’s far from decent, being the Main Antagonist’s henchman. If he ends up dead it’ll be tragic.

I suppose I’ll have to write it and see, but that can’t happen until the dog is walked and certain other chores are Taken Care Of. Already this morning I’ve done the last few pronunciations for an audiobook, started some email threads, finished others, and dear gods I need more coffee, I’m just not caffeinated enough for this.

At least there’s beer mugs used as weapons and a bit of close-in knife combat. My only regret is that the setting precludes me adding motor oil to this particular scene. Ah well, we can’t have everything, especially on a Tuesday.

Time to get to work.

Aid, Abet, Power, Justice

I finished off the weekend by watching a Netflix documentary on Charles Cullen, nurse and extremely prolific serial killer. What struck me was not his methods–sociopaths gonna sociopath–but the way he was allowed to keep killing, aided and abetted by the American for-profit “healthcare” system. Many other serial killers have been aided and abetted by misogyny in similar fashion.

I could write a whole article about the links, but I’m tired, only halfway through my coffee, not being paid nearly enough, and have deadlines besides. Instead I’ll just say, serial killers are cowards and they choose vulnerable, marginalized prey. We find the idea of the handsome genius serial killer entrancing because it makes for good fiction and we want there to be some meaning in the horror, but in reality they are empty wastes creeping through shadows and picking off easy prey if they think they can get away with it.

And all too often, society colludes.

I mean, I love a good serial killer show or detective novel just like anyone else. I enjoy the fiction. The real-life study is something I engage in because looking steadily at the horror is my lot in life. Plus, I have always tried to believe knowledge is power. (Cersei Lannister says power is power, and as a reductionist analysis it’s fine as far as it goes, but it’s also bad-faith, too simplistic, and let’s not even talk about problematics.) I’ve also tried to believe in justice, though I know very well otherwise. (Pratchett in Hogfather pointed out why it’s important to believe so; I shall let you go forth and discover–or remember–for yourself.) At the same time, I think a lot of power resides in belief, in finding meaning, in patterns and the breaking of them.

…it’s a Monday, I’m allowed to be philosophical. At least before the caffeine hits.

Today is for more Hell’s Acre, getting prepped for a meeting I don’t want to have, finally a ramble with Boxnoggin–who has been very patient with the snow keeping us from his accustomed exertions–and a decent run. It’s the last I’m looking forward to most. Getting the stress chemicals sweated out and rinsed off will do me no end of good, and thankfully the sidewalks are clear. A few more days above freezing and the snow will be a distant memory. The dog can hardly wait; I suppose I’m the same.

Onward and upward, then.

Dry Snow Day

Dry and crunchy.

This part of the world doesn’t often get fine powder-snow. I haven’t seen this weather since Wyoming–the particular pale tinge to a winter sky near the horizon, the dry crunch of several inches of snow, the wind coming fast and bright, air so cold and un-humid it sparkles like champagne. The road is a skating rink, the backyard a wonderland, the birdbath wearing a fuzzy white fur hat.

What with the wind it’s well below freezing, and has been all night. I have never forgotten the low moan of moving air against a house’s corners (Rattlesnake Wind is named after that sound) but I didn’t think I’d hear it here.

The melt is coming, or so the meteorologists say. It will be nice to have all this washed away so we can get back to walkies, morning runs, and the like…

…but I’m also enjoying the snow and song, for as long as it lasts. I’ll be working all weekend, so it probably didn’t matter that I snuggled in bed a little longer today, cuddling Boxnoggin and listening to the weather speak.

Monday will be warmer, my beloveds. See you then!

Shivering Thankful

Another snowpocalypse. This is getting depressingly regular, but at least this time it’s dry powder, not wet dense stuff, and there’s no freezing rain to coat everything, snapping branches plus power lines with its weight. Boxnoggin is mildly put out that he will not have walkies today, but the backyard is so cold and the snow so unpleasant on his tender tootsies he’s willing to be magnanimous, especially if I give him a treat or two.

Or four.

With the cedars gone the east wind smacks the back of the house, including my office window. Which is less than ideal…but nothing can be done, so here we are. At least the melt, when it happens, will give me plenty of fodder for the epic fantasy, where the main character is trekking across a frozen swamp and hoping spring will stave off for long enough to get to the other side. I think next they’ll hear the hunting horns of their enemies, because of course things can always get worse in one of my books.

Both bridges over the river are at a standstill, and all authorities are pleading with people to stay put, don’t try to travel, just for the love of god stay off the roads. I am wincing for everyone who feels they have to go out in this mess, especially those who literally can’t afford to miss work. Weather events are one thing, but late-stage capitalism is a much worse catastrophe, and it seems goddamn near unending. Each week brings a fresh hell; I am legitimately surprised guillotines haven’t made a serious comeback.

The snow is pretty, though, and I’ll build a fire in a wee bit. The last of the cedar will probably go up the chimney today. If this had to happen, things worked out as well as possible. I’m no optimist–I swear–but when I think of how bad it could be I’m damn near shivering with thankfulness.

A lot of dry snow is being kicked up by the wind. I haven’t seen this kind of feathery airborne stuff since Wyoming. The good news is, it’s clearing off the tree branches even as it rattles against the windows. I’d forgotten how clear the air gets in this kind of low-humidity freeze; it damn near sparkles, like champagne. I’m not going to go trudging around in the drifts, but it is rather beautiful.

I wish you toasty warmth and a bit of peace today, my dears. If I am very good and get all my projected work done, I might even play hooky with a sort of noir-ish thing…