Pic of the day: Chaos from the Chaos Node.
The report from Infinity's concert in Kristiansand is found at the end of yesterday's entry.
Today I slept till noon, nearly 10 hours, and woke up tired and with my left ear still feeling like full of cotton from the concert. It feels better now, though I can still hear some ringing when I fall silent enough. My dreams were long and colorful, but not meaningful, so I've mainly forgotten them. One was an expedition to Sweden, I think.
As I stood looking at my bed today, it seemed strangely empty. Without me.
Then off to buy groceries. This time I remembered cheese
for my pasta. Yummy! I overcooked it slightly, making the
tortellini taste watery, but the cheese was good.
People, you should eat macaroni and cheese now. Or when you are old, and can no longer taste salt from sweet, and can eat little but pills and prunes, you will weep with regret and say: "Why did we not listen to him who warned us, and eat macaroni and cheese while there was still time? Now its delight is forever gone from our platters, and our palates will never again delight in its precious taste. Now all our food tastes like gravel, and seasoning like sand on gravel. Woe betide us, that the age of macaroni and cheese has passed utterly from our lives!"
I seemed to remember that I had some high quality letter paper
left in the windowless storage room at the end of the corridor.
But the way from here to there was literally blocked by various
stuff, much of it shopping bags. These beauties depicted above,
for instance, contained textiles I had not quite unpacked, with
their price tags on and stuff. Others were empty of content,
but not yet disposed of.
The paper wasn't there, just some envelopes of the color and quality imagined. I've probably used it all up, in the time where I was still sending handwritten letters. Anyway, I noticed one other thing while I was in the room. I write this against my better judgement, I'll probably not in this life hear the end of it. The room was obviously meant for a wardrobe, with lots and lots of hanging space for clothes.
My handwriting is in pretty bad shape, after years of being used almost exclusively for keywords on scraps of paper when I came on a good idea while away from my computers. If handwriting really reflects our souls, then my soul is in a state of neglect and disrepair. I'm not sure that was the signal I intended to send the one I was adressing.
OK, I guess I should do something about the load of clothes, as I'm probably not going to photograph them again. In the words of Infinity: "Check it, check it, move it, move it." (I never said I loved them for the depth of their lyrics.)
(Later) Been there, done that. Glory to the inventors of the MiniDisk. You know, the music may sound slightly less impressive on my living room floor than on the dance floor, but the company is more to my taste.
"Daddy, is Grandma in cyberspace now?"