We have liftoff. Saturday, June 18, 2022, is climbing through time, leaving its contrails behind for us to study.
Cloudy is today’s word. Chilly is related, with us staring at 52 F at the moment, hoping for something in the sixties. Hoping is a strong sentiment; my wife, cats, and I are all comfortable with the low fifties and some dabble of sunshine. Rain potential hangs above us with the clouds asking, “Will I? Will I?” Such capricious characters. Sunrise drew the curtains open on the daylight hours at 5:34 AM and the obverse is at 8:50 PM. Our weather is better than places like Spain, where they’re baking in 40 degrees C, which, using the formula learned in school eons ago, translates to 104 F. Ouch, yeah?
Cats and neurons conspired behind my back to plunk a Bruno Mars song into the morning mental music stream. I’d stirred from dreams this morning. Ready and waiting, Tucker pounced on my hand, tapping it for some loving. I began scratching him as directed. He reciprocated with motor-boat purrs. I asked in sotto voce, “You like how that makes you feel?” Just like that, the neurons delivered a ten-year-old song, “Locked Out of Heaven”. It bothered me a little as I song it to myself after feeding the cats and preparing my breakfast, because Bruno sings, “‘Cause your sex takes me to paradise, yeah, you sex takes me to paradise.” I told the neurons, you guys are a little bizarre, you know?
Stay positive, test negative, mask up as needed, space out as required, and, you know. Here’s the music. I hear a cup of coffee singing the song of my people. Cheers