Squirrely weather. Upper eighties with undecided skies. Hazy half the day, clear the other half. There’s a big fire somewhere in California, and the smoke may be drifting in over the mountains. Hard to tell because there’s no scent of a burn in the air.
Worked on commercial stuff most of the day. Put in a little time on a new story, but not enough to have made much of a dent in the narrative. The opening is scattered and needs to be sorted through, but I think it can be a good piece if I can get it right.
Can’t believe we’re staring at the end of June. Jesus. “Swift as a weaver’s shuttle fleet our years.” Who the hell said that? Milton? Browning? I refuse to look it up. Maybe it came from The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Praxed’s? There was a time I could recite that whole poem without a hitch. Same with Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, and Ulysses. A near miss with Andrea del Sarto.
Might get a chance to go fishing Friday. Not gonna jinx it, but hell. Wouldn’t that be nice? New line, new flies. I’m ready. Don’t care if the water’s high and brown from the runoff, I just want to spend a few hours in the mountains.