Everything’s pretty much sopping wet today.  In the forties which means a person feels the wet to the bone.  Earlier today we walked the little friends through the graveyard, seven of them, and Stuart and Fiona and me, Edie the only one who refused hat or hood.  She never seems to notice.  If she’s outside, she’s pretty much grinning.  Even if the cold and wind makes her eyes water.  Charlie and Edie and I painted an octopus, and, as usual, I drew Ben some ceiling fans.  With chains.

Paula’s down the hall listening to opera, and I’m in here listening to Louis Armstrong, the Hot Fives and Sevens, which I could pretty much listen to for the rest of my life, and nothing else, and be completely happy.  I can also hear the tires on the wet road out the window and if I don’t look it sounds like the wind.

Just this very second, I started to have a worry and then I edited the worry, realized pretty quickly it weren’t nothing to worry over.  Worry always seems like a good idea at the time, like somehow I’m gonna figure something out I’ve yet to or like I’ve made some fine discovery heretofore undiscovered.

Downstairs here in the library they’re gearing up for a show of photographs–portraits–to open in eighteen minutes.  It’s true I’m going to see the photographs; it’s also true I didn’t bring enough food today and need some vittles, no doubt cheese slices and strawberries.

I love the holy heck outta Edie.

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