We went to The City today. More or less on a whim. Our friend was flying in, and taking the bus, but we decided to surporise her and pick her up instead.

And my daughter is formally the calmest and most wonderful almost-one-and-a-half-year-old in history. She took in stride the 2 x 2 hour drive, plus our wandering between public gardens and Thai restaurants, the non-stop talking and driving all over the city, reminiscing about the time when we all, except her of course, met there exactly ten years ago.

On the way back, they all fell asleep. Which was nice. Me driving. They sleeping. Nice.

It is warm today. But I have a serious case of goosebumps.

There are almost four thousand songs on my iPod now. It's on shuffle, presenting my music in a way that really keeps my attention.

Maybe that is why I felt chills up my spine – really, butterflies in my stomach and all – just now, when Elvis Costello started singing

She
May be the face I can't forget.
The trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay
She
May be the song that summer sings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She
May be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a heaven or a hell
She may be the mirror of my dreams
The smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell

She
Who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one's allowed to see them when they cry
She
May be the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows of the past
That I'll remember till the day I die

How can music have such a grip on your very soul, shaking it to its core?

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I can't believe that butt-ugly diner burned down! And all by itself. Just can't believe it.

Literally.

Now, the first thing I did, when I saw that smoke rising, was to call my wife. Her utter disdain for that place and now just starting her period makes for a truly lethal combination. In an otherwise really calm woman.

After she had laughed heartily at my demands that she tell me where she was, she said she thought my worries were sweet, but she had been in the OR all afternoon, and was still stuck at the hospital.

I could finally relax.

And enjoy the view. Even took my daughter there, and snapped this photo for the rest of you:



I guess I should, as a respectable member of the Historic Preservation Commission, say something blah-di-blah and heartwarming about the tragedy of that old heap of junk burning down. But you know what?

Good riddens.

I know I'm not overly responsive to your e-mail, though I do read it all. But this one was just to good to pass up.

From a reader: Bushwhacked

:)

The change in Kerry's presidential campaign comes as a pleasant surprise. The vague and cryptic seems to be finally making way for the clear and succinct. Bytesize, though sad in itself, seems to be the maximum message volume this populii is able to digest.

Their TV ads are also getting less boring. A couple of them are actually a bit witty. Cheaky, even. Now, how would I know that, the TV-less hick that I have become? Well, they're all on the Net now. Check 'em out. Though most of them are still dull fluff, some are worth watching: This one actually said what needed to be said, this one is to the point, and this one is hard-hitting.

Now, this one may not be verbose or well-reasoned. But it's funny. Hilarious, actually. I recommend it.

Why oh why have I not gone to bed yet?

Can somebody pleasae tell me why I am baking brownies? At midnight. When my daughter will be waking up in seven hours. Could it be because I can't bring myself to going up to that empty bedroom? Or because I'm too restless to sleep? Maybe it's just that I like baking brownies.

Actually, the last time I made these brownies, they proved utterly and sinfully irrresistable. To anyone who came within aroma distance of them.

So maybe it's that. Right?

It has begun.

The quiet, cool blaze is burning its way through here. The tall trees, lusciously green just a few weeks ago, are falling prey to this silent inferno. The red and the yellow and orange flames lick the bodies of these giants. Gently undressing them, letting their cloaks slide to the ground. Leaving them bare. Somber. Ready for their winter coat.

As I was climbing the hills yesterday, the bike moving slowly enough for me to actually notice what was happening around me, it suddenly felt like this woodland was letting out its last sigh of summer. The sizzle is gone from the sunny beams, and the fire in the leaves foretell the inevitable arrival of winter.

It is becoming quiet. Again. A moment's pause, while Nature prepares to change the setting. She carefully rolls up the green carpets of the meadows. Bottles the red from the roses. Puts the singing of the birds, and the chirping of the crickets, in a cardboard box. And while she busies herself with those autumn chores, everything else sits patiently by.

Watching the seasons turn.