We were at our friend Mason's house last night and it got kind of late, so we stayed on his couch rather than drive home. I fell asleep while Judge and Mason watched a program on Heidi Fleiss. Entertaining, I know.
We woke cramped and fully-clothed this AM and headed for our car. Once outside, I noticed how beautiful a morning it was, all soft, rainy and quiet - it was six o'clock and felt like Fall.
We don't have silent rainy mornings in summer much here, but it felt like Birmingham and school time, and once we got home, Judge laid back down and got comfortable. I made coffee and sat at my dinner table and enjoyed the hush of my kitchen and the bitter taste of the coffee. I felt like I couldn't let the rarity of this morning escape me.
I wished hard, but non-convincingly, that I didn't have to go to work, something I cannot get out of, especially after my Highlands debaucle eating all of my days. I sit here and can't help but feel that work is for stiffs, not artists, at least that was what my soul is telling me.
It is telling me that I needed to be spending time watching the morning unfold and less time worrying about what time I had to get in the shower by to be able to get there by 8:30.
Work sucks. Rainy mornings don't.
Oh - Allie, Dearest, a blog in my links, pointed out that George Orwell has a blog. For real. He may be dead, but his estate is putting up his diary. It's really cool.
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