Mash is the nickname I’ve given the mail the United States Postal Service delivers to my post box. It’s a truncating and combining of two words, as I’m wont to do. In this instance, the two words are mail trash. By my estimate, my mail is ninety percent mash. Two percent is personal, and eight percent is bills.

Storm Names

I’ve been reading about the winter storm. Some call it bomb cyclone, but it has a name, you know. It’s been named Grayson. That name brought to mind Kathryn Grayson. She never won an Academy Award, but I thought, wouldn’t it be neat if they started naming storms after Oscar winners? Then we could say things like, “Clint Eastwood is threatening the East Coast of the United States.”


The Ambivalence

Once again, I’m on the ambivalence train. This weather, like spring, is lovely. Light showers are falling. It was fifty-four degrees outside at midnight. Since then, it’s dropped to fifty, unseasonable weather, but pleasant.

It’s a helluva lot better than Europe and eastern North America are enduring, with cyclone bombs, flooding, and terribly cold temperatures. Comparing our situation with theirs, I believe I’m much happier and better off.

But looking forward to the summer, worry swells. If it’s this dry and warm now, the models predict we’re going to be hot and dry.

Hence, ambivalence about enjoying this southern Oregon weather. Maybe I should play ignorant and just enjoy the now. Conversely, I can be a hopeful optimist, and think, maybe we’ll have a rainy year, pleasant temperatures, and no wildfires.

A guy can dream.

Friday’s Theme Music

“Time,” by Pink Floyd, was one of those songs that I liked to listen to while laying flat on my back in the dark with headphones on. I did that with of the entire album, Dark Side of the Moon.

The discordant beginning of alarm clocks and bells ringing that starts “Time” is a satisfying, *ahem* wake up call. Then the heartbeats begin….

Later in life, I often streamed it in my mind as I awaited events, made plans, or traveled.

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I’d something more to say

Of course, I always continue listening (or streaming) on through the next two songs.


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