It is about three thirty in the afternoon here in San Jose and I've just circled back into the apartment. The sky is a very deep gray, the breeze smells of rain, and all of the birds are singing up a storm. I just put dinner into the oven (roast chicken with rosemary, thyme, and seasoned salt), so it should be ready in an hour of so. After deliberating half a dozen chicken recipes, I ultimately decided to just keep it simple. I'll cook some rice to go with the chicken before to long.
It's been a pretty simple and enjoyable weekend. Saturday was a supremely lazy day - the only reason I left the apartment was to run down to the bank, make a quick stop at the drug store, and then swing through the book store. Other than that I spend the day relaxing, reading, listening to music and watching incidental shows on television.
Today started out pretty much the same. I went to an early mass, then circled home. I played on the computer for a while, then cooked a chili omelet for breakfast. I ate the omelet while watching a DVR'ed episode of "Lie To Me", then went out to meet Pierre and Helen at the movie theatre to see the new Wolverine movie with Hugh Jackman. It was visually enjoyable (try not to think about the plot, try not to think about the plot). I would recommend it as a pleasing two hours worth of eye candy.
After the movie I stopped at a russian deli for tea and a sandwich, then swung over to Target to pick up a new flour sifter (mine was on its last legs) so I can try a coffee cake recipe sent by someone dear to me who tormented me with visions of coffee cake for an entire week. From there I drifted home.
A few minutes ago the rain started to pour down - the fast popping as it hits the awning outside the open patio doors is a wonderful rush of white noise. I slept very well last night and I had one of those dreams where I woke with a phrase in my head. (My dreams have been surprisingly literate the last couple of months - I wonder what that is about - perhaps it is because I am not writing enough.) The phrase was:
"Incidents of Insight and the Mechanics of Meaning"
It seems like it would be a good book title. Perhaps it is a very good description of the type of dream that I seem to be having lately. I am aware that I am not writing as much creatively as I like to - other than a few, I have not written a lot of poetry or short fiction in the last month or so. (Just like that the rain has stopped - that is how it has been all day - a little bands of showers, enough to raise the scent of rain and leave it slightly muggy.)
I need to start doing writing exercises to get those creative juices flowing and to that end I just took one of my favorite little writing prompt books out and I will page through it a little later in the evening. It is not that I do not have anything to write, it is more that I have not gotten around to carving out the time to actually do the writing - and that is something that is entirely curable.
One of the highlights of this weekend has been a lot of very satisfying incidental conversations and with incidental people. Though slow and simple I have moved through the weekend so far with a sense of being very much alive - and that is a very good thing.
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