Friday, September 16, 2005

The Empty Promises Of Weathermen

It used to be that strewn about my bed, five or six different books, all of which I had started, but none of which I had gone farther than page 82. They'd lay open on their stomachs, pages hanging out like intestines, and every time I would look at them I would feel slightly guilty. I remember someone once chastising me for such unruly behavior, said that there is no faster way to to break a book's spine. I'd feel bad regardless, but something about the the idea of a book being a vertebrate makes it seem particularly awful.

The clouds have been changing from white to purple all week. A sky full of bruises everywhere you look! The silly weather people had said that it would rain, but apparently they were mistaken. I've been paying attention to the weather an awful lot lately, which for some reason always seemed to me something that only grown ups did, like drinking coffee or reading the paper.

I've coaxed the Windows Media Player on my computer into playing a continuous stream of Songs: Norah Jones, The Magnetic Fields. For some reason I have convinced myself that there's no better welcome for Fall than melancholic piano and banjo music.

Today's the kind of wonderfully dangerous day in which you could convince yourself to feel nostalgic about nearly anything.