Overcast days, still warm.

The studio has booked a wedding and a baby naming, much welcomed work after a long, quiet spell.

Reading: Salmon Rushdie’s account of his exile from real space in the form of Joseph Anton, his nom-de-underground adopted in the wake of the death fatwa issued and maintained by the Ayatollah K’meanies.

And I’ve continued hanging out and jawing politics on Facebook too much.

Greg Trumpower, retired from the mortgage brokering business, is one of the town’s old sons.  His dad worked at the Pangborn factory, now closed and razed but still a short walk from where Greg’s been living out a traditional rural dream of huntin’, fishin’, gardenin’, and pickin’ and singin’ Waylon — also his own material — with an old guitar.

It’s the company and the garden that gets me to stop by on the walks I use to escape from the desktop environment.

Above that plant on the kitchen porch railing, a sunroom has been readied for winter.  “Bear”, the cat, will be keeping company.

Dean, who storms the day at the very first glimmer of early mid-afternoon, may be dropping by today for a drive in the countryside accompanied by Nikons.

Tepid, the morning and the writing — I know the reader feels it — and I do wonder if me and leuk might kick up the attitude some.

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Equipage For the Above Set: still the point-and-shoot Lumix Lx5.