Chevron flight.
There were geese heading south this morning. I heard them before I saw them - many, maybe fifteen or twenty, I couldn't get a good count. I didn't have enough window to get a long look. Just a quick look. A quick look is still enough to see them flapping and racing on before the cold.
There was music coming through the window this evening. A piano, a woman singing, something about how we can't get enough, we want more, we want you - maybe it was just her wanting more, wanting someone, I couldn't make out all that much. Just enough to have heard something lovely on a still-warm autumn night, with the lights across the way still on, the echoes of the day finally fading out.
Last Thursday, the apartment across the way from me - the fifth floor apartment of the building right next to mine that has its own back deck directly in the line of sight of two of my three windows - replaced its old fence with a new one. At first, when the old fence was coming down, I was worried; as the new fence came up, I was both relieved and displeased. Relieved that there would still be a bit of privacy and displeased they'd changed the style of the fence. It'll take some getting used to.
That the timing of the commissioned James Marsters reading of The Archipelago of Kisses by Jeffrey McDaniel happened to land on the same day he'd spent the morning in divorce mediation is a funny story, though it took me a while to feel comfortable laughing at the joke.
I'm torn on whether I like his or Hans Ostrom's own reading of Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven more. Same with the commission of Piute Creek on whether he or Gary Snyder give a better reading.
Zen Of The Broken by Mindy Nettifee and Elemental by Joanna Klink and Fear of Happiness by A. E. Stallings are simply good readings, though unfortunately for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
petra, the last one doesn't seem to have the fidelity necessary for a vid. To which I say, blame the hotel room's acoustics.
There was music coming through the window this evening. A piano, a woman singing, something about how we can't get enough, we want more, we want you - maybe it was just her wanting more, wanting someone, I couldn't make out all that much. Just enough to have heard something lovely on a still-warm autumn night, with the lights across the way still on, the echoes of the day finally fading out.
Last Thursday, the apartment across the way from me - the fifth floor apartment of the building right next to mine that has its own back deck directly in the line of sight of two of my three windows - replaced its old fence with a new one. At first, when the old fence was coming down, I was worried; as the new fence came up, I was both relieved and displeased. Relieved that there would still be a bit of privacy and displeased they'd changed the style of the fence. It'll take some getting used to.
That the timing of the commissioned James Marsters reading of The Archipelago of Kisses by Jeffrey McDaniel happened to land on the same day he'd spent the morning in divorce mediation is a funny story, though it took me a while to feel comfortable laughing at the joke.
I'm torn on whether I like his or Hans Ostrom's own reading of Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven more. Same with the commission of Piute Creek on whether he or Gary Snyder give a better reading.
Zen Of The Broken by Mindy Nettifee and Elemental by Joanna Klink and Fear of Happiness by A. E. Stallings are simply good readings, though unfortunately for
petra, the last one doesn't seem to have the fidelity necessary for a vid. To which I say, blame the hotel room's acoustics.