November Thursday

A November Thursday: the clouds scud across the sky, now revealing the waning half-moon and Orion, now driving leaves before them, now dumping a second deluge.  The trees wear yellow leaves like ragged mittens over skelital fingers.  And the green has returned to the Vally:  green lawns, green moss, green algea growing on cars, green lichens sprouting up tree trunks.  But it's a dark green -- the sun, low in along its winter path, is flitered out by the clouds, giving everything a muted cast: red bricks are brown, lighter bricks are like wet agate; the wet pavement is matt grey;  white cars are the color of old bones; and the only bright cerylians and yellows are on pedestrians' raincoats.

This morning I steamed some eggs for breakfast.   I like steamed eggs for breakfast, and there are some mornings when just holding hot eggs in my hands feels wonderful.   On an impulse, as they were cooling, I took one and ran it over a knot I have running over my right shoulder.  Between the egg's shape and the heat of it, I managed to iron out the almost solid bump on top of my shoulder muscles.  I'm hoping that this will be a more long-term fix; previosly when I've kneaded that part of my shoulder, I've only manged to sort of losen things up without smothing out the knot.  I'll have to get some soapstone to use more regularly, since it's likely the family won't appreciating me using their steamed eggs as massage tools.  

About an hour or so of writing, mostly fleshing out scenes in a longish story about a baker.  It's hard to get a word count... and I think there's a way to have Scrivener track word count (not sure how helpful that is when you're editing out words, but...).