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Change and decay in all about I see
Oct. 22nd, 2012 10:28 amMists and mellow fruitfulness, my eye. Autumnal is indeed nothing to do with leaves*; around here half the trees are evergreen in any case, so best not to call it Fall either. We shall call it Change.
As witness, Barry has just spent an hour sitting on my right knee. Those of you in the know will know what a change is there.
The duvet's on the bed again, and so are the boys. Last night Barry rediscovered his favourite sleeping-spot, beside my left shoulder. Which was a little unfortunate, as I was having a bad night and it's hard to slip away unnoticed with a cat firmly emplaced on one side and a wife on the other.
What's worse, though, is trying to slither quietly back again an hour later, to find that both cats - who had of course got up immediately after I did, in that definition-of-perversity that they are - had resumed their former places except with added territorial advantage, so that there was barely room for me at all. One of those instances where a move was good strategy but bad tactics.
So anyway, not much sleeping until late in the night; so I slept as I sometimes do through all of Karen's rising, and woke just in time to say goodbye. Only to be told that it was raining.
Rain! Again! That's the second time this season! That's enough, surely? More than enough: it's been at it all morning, more or less. This house sort of chimes in the rain: water dings metallically in various pipes and flues. It's sort of not quite comforting, but not extremely not.
In possibly related news, I had a moment of panic as I laid my book down to head back to bed in the mid-dark. I'm halfway through The Hydrogen Sonata, and thoroughly enjoying it (as I didn't so much Banksie's last Culture novel, Surface Detail, which while it has much to recommend it is still a holodeck adventure at heart, and I do not like holodeck stories, no), and I was gripped with that sudden oh hell, I'm halfway through already, and what am I going to read when I'm done with this?. Apparently I need comfort reading suddenly, seasonally, and the Culture is always a comfort. Maybe I'll just grab all Karen's Dorothy L Sayers and devour them in order: hell, I can even pretend that that's working.
Right now, though, I really should be working. I have much to do. But it's cold and grey and raining, so my notion of taking the laptop to the cafe is less appealing than it ought to be; and really I just want to lie on the sofa and read Banks.
But the cats have claimed the sofa - they are cold, and curled up on the same cushion with their backs resolutely turned to each other, trying to share warmth while remaining a measured four inches from actual touching - so it's all kind of like the nighttime all over again. Can't disturb the cats, so I might just have to go out after all.
*"It has to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day."
As witness, Barry has just spent an hour sitting on my right knee. Those of you in the know will know what a change is there.
The duvet's on the bed again, and so are the boys. Last night Barry rediscovered his favourite sleeping-spot, beside my left shoulder. Which was a little unfortunate, as I was having a bad night and it's hard to slip away unnoticed with a cat firmly emplaced on one side and a wife on the other.
What's worse, though, is trying to slither quietly back again an hour later, to find that both cats - who had of course got up immediately after I did, in that definition-of-perversity that they are - had resumed their former places except with added territorial advantage, so that there was barely room for me at all. One of those instances where a move was good strategy but bad tactics.
So anyway, not much sleeping until late in the night; so I slept as I sometimes do through all of Karen's rising, and woke just in time to say goodbye. Only to be told that it was raining.
Rain! Again! That's the second time this season! That's enough, surely? More than enough: it's been at it all morning, more or less. This house sort of chimes in the rain: water dings metallically in various pipes and flues. It's sort of not quite comforting, but not extremely not.
In possibly related news, I had a moment of panic as I laid my book down to head back to bed in the mid-dark. I'm halfway through The Hydrogen Sonata, and thoroughly enjoying it (as I didn't so much Banksie's last Culture novel, Surface Detail, which while it has much to recommend it is still a holodeck adventure at heart, and I do not like holodeck stories, no), and I was gripped with that sudden oh hell, I'm halfway through already, and what am I going to read when I'm done with this?. Apparently I need comfort reading suddenly, seasonally, and the Culture is always a comfort. Maybe I'll just grab all Karen's Dorothy L Sayers and devour them in order: hell, I can even pretend that that's working.
Right now, though, I really should be working. I have much to do. But it's cold and grey and raining, so my notion of taking the laptop to the cafe is less appealing than it ought to be; and really I just want to lie on the sofa and read Banks.
But the cats have claimed the sofa - they are cold, and curled up on the same cushion with their backs resolutely turned to each other, trying to share warmth while remaining a measured four inches from actual touching - so it's all kind of like the nighttime all over again. Can't disturb the cats, so I might just have to go out after all.
*"It has to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day."
