I planned something maudlin. This rainy day swept into my head on a sharp cold wind, and there roiled bleak clouds of pathos. I wanted to write about the ephemera of memory, of tattered recollections I’d pay dearly to restore, of Friday parties, of lazy trips to Grapevine, laughing drives along the Secret Back Way, cuddling up with boxes of beer. I wanted to capture a thousand memories of a thousand moments, a thousand smiles.

I decided that was all dust, blown away. I won’t fail to take that sort of thing seriously when it’s happening any more. I’m a coward who hides behind a cheap cynical mask. I’m not an interesting coward so that’s not worth writing about. I stifle my desire to appreciate and wonder because I’m afraid about what happens when it ends, but I’m the only victim of that.

So, no more blah blah blah.

O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!
Sondern laßt uns angenehmere
anstimmen, und freudenvollere!

From somewhere came into our house a potted Lily of the Valley, Convallaria majalis. (There are various sad legends associated with the flower, but I don’t want to get into that now.) It started blooming a few days ago, so I carried it up to the improvised studio and took a bunch of pictures.

The leaves and flowers contain all sorts of scary-sounding chemicals that have something to do with heart attacks. I’m not sure if that means you should keep the plant around so that you can stuff a handfull of it into the mouth of a quivering patient on the floor. Somehow, even if it’d be effective, I can’t imagine how you’d explain it all to the paramedics.

With the lights all set up I got some good pictures of the kids too, but I’ll save those.

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