WolfSpy of Celeste

Meat Loaf died today, as did Thich Nhat Hanh, and it just goes to show what a terrible person I am that I will miss Mr. Loaf more than the monk. "Bat Out of Hell" was my go-to album in 1986 when we moved to Kansas. Also Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska," but that's a pretty dark album. Back here in Michigan, I thought I should go to the grocery store, but that didn't go well for reasons too numerous to detail. I saw someone I used to know in the vegetable aisle and it was sad for complicated reasons, and also made me realize that I had forgotten to put my mask on. I donned it in a fluster, and then it kept flouncing off my ear. I realized all my coupons were expired, so there was no reason to buy any of those things. I kinda lost the will to live and wandered aimlessly through the store assembling a sad little collection of random items. Once again, they had none of the ice cream I wanted. I bought a sad frozen cake for my birthday. I didn't feel like baking my own cake, and I don't think the Sparrowhawk is quite up to running around town looking for one. They were two for six dollars, and I couldn't even bring myself to select a second cake and take full advantage of my savings. Even the elderly checker with one earring said "This is a very small order for you, isn't it?" He knows me too well. The checkers at the grocery store are practically the only people I ever see any more.

At home, I inadvisedly bolted a sandwich without chewing each bite one million times, and gave myself a stomach ache that lasted all day. We took the Christmas tree down. It was time. I would have done it last week, but the Sparrowhawk was sick then. Now there's no more friendly, mysterious presence of the tree until next year, but there's still a whole lot of winter left.