I'm kicking it old school today my little fairies. I'm writing in the box today, the wee purple diaryland box. Feels good. Hey there purple diaryland box, I missed you.

I went down to the river last night after work. I took a beer with me and I drank in the dark sitting underneath the trees and the cloudy sky. It was cold but after walking up the hill from the river to Mr. Brown's cabin, I was warm from my head to my finger-tips. I took Peaches up on my lap for a little friend to friend chat and Frankie came up for a little love and then zoom! Off they went roaming and poking their noses in various interesting places. They my best pals, all those dogs.

Folks are talking about the schools maybe closing here today--there's a tiny bit of snow-type precipitation going on. Low buzzings of excitment, low wishings for just enough to let us go home and be with our families but not enough to make us miserable, low electricity, low desire under the skin like a blanket, no not a blanket but something alive under the cold, something warm and growing.

I heated up some corn chowder and made a salad with dreadful frozen lettuce and spinach and fine cherry tomatoes and sprouted black eyed peas and jalapeno cheese and peppers. I toasted slices of sprouted grain bread then spread garlic hummus on top. I put the yellow corn chowder in a blue bowl. I sprinkled it with red cayenne pepper. So purty. We ate with the food spread over the big time-beaten trunk with the winter clothes in it, we ate communion-style, sharing bowls and bread. I sat on a wicker ottoman, Jeff sat on the trunk, his back to the window I faced. It was a dark cold night and Jeff wore his black biking pants and a black thermal shirt and his red hoody with the hood up. Basho, my stately and dignified first mate, wore his black and white coat, Frankie looking like Bashi's baby girl wore the same, and Peaches decided to be a small body made entirely of peach fuzz for contrast.

And we all together live in a large and warm and well-lit room, full of blue and red and green and yellow and brown. I love this house, this life. My heart is glad to walk down to the river, just me and this small pack of dogs, and then to come home, into the warmth, into the company of my friend, this man who offers his thanks and praise to the great spirit each time he opens his eyes. His heart is open and he loves. His heart is open and he works. And the two mean the same thing in the spirit world. Oh lord, I am blessed, I am humbled, I am touched by the great goodness to share his company, allicayay, allicayo.

I'm a bit over the top sometimes. Joy is like despair in that way, melodramatic, hyperbolic. The texture of the world feels deeper--sometimes it's the underground backroom horror of malevolent beasties clawing to get at me, sometimes the air is sewn with anticipation, with contentment, with god's own air sprites. Sometimes there are no back rooms, just a vast and rich wood full of snow and sunlight. Praise be.