Now, fully oriented. The merging between sleep and ideas and study and sousing leads to calendar confusion. Meaning. Wednesday. Thursday. When is the flight departing for the city opposed to the Middling City. And the breathtaking discovery that the flight is Tomorrow. That TODAY is the deadline for school. TODAY is the uncovering of my auto, the driveway, the walk for the asshole mailman (who suddenly decided not to risk life and limb this season by chancing the driveway's few inches of crusty edges and had my mail hostage for a week, a stinking week, in his government-issued rust) and my joy. Shovel. Snow. And, if this can be accomplished in one hour from now - rightnow - I can have breakfast with Deb and Sarah. Kennedy escorted me to the suburbs for some errands and, joyofjoys, we meandered into WalMart Palace of American Taste. Me, searching for a now-rare Spectra Polaroid camera for the 3/27 gig. Him, entranced by some "electronic" objets d'art. Kennedy gave me and the Perfect subsumed english major self the stories of Henry James. A book that invites the nose to sniff the page notes and bouquet.
As Beth Orton warbles with the near-power of Marianne Faithful and the intriguing controlled passion of most of us I think:
1. I really should be shovelling.
2. You should really be looking at this.
3. We should all look up and say Hey, Saint Patrick, whoever the fuck you were, described in Histories of the Saints (and other Tortured Souls) as "an ill-educated but passionately sincere man," thanks for the nature analogy of the shamrock and hope you weren't too passionately sincere at those harmless Druids.

Natural Love.