Bloody Headache

After a week of cloudy sky, after a week of praying for clear sky so I could see Comet Lulin, the sky finally clears up and ... I can't spot it. Now tell me life (world) is fair.

But I'm not complaining, oh no, no. [insert sarcasm here] This was finally a fine weather day. Clear blue sky, bright sun, blindingly white snow, and fierce gusts of wind, carrying a powder of snow across the streets. Everything would have been fine if not for my bloody headache. I felt as if I had a bucket on my head and someone was banging on it with a baseball bat. Now I do feel a bit better. Heaven bless the tiny little bright pink pills!

Brumal Sleep

Can anyone tell me what kind of season this is? Supposedly, winter, going to spring, which equals an absolute nightmare weather. I can't even figure out what to wear. To all intents I am going to get wet, get muddy, freeze and sweat all at the same time. Lovely.

All that does nothing to reflect my inner fellings of fresh and colorful spring. No sheer clothing, no colorful shoes, no nothing. I am at an absolute confusion about what's going on outside and how should I cope with it. Maybe I should have gone to brumal sleep. Wake me up when Sept..., no wait, March ends.

Well, at least I managed to do everything I had to do today. And a bit more, which is satisfying. To cheer myself up, I bought a bunch of yellow tulips, you know, the ones that have more than one bloom on one peduncle. If there's no spring outside, then it is in my room.

Quote of the day: "In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.'' /Mark Twain/

Bag of Bones

Ah, what can be better than an evening with a cup of hot tea and a piece of genious by Stephen King? I'll tell you what - nothing.

I don't remember myself being this hooked since I read Misery by the Man himself. Yes, of course, some credit of getting me hooked goes to the wonderful Mrs. J. K. Rowling. But this is no story about Harry Potter. This is about Michael Noonan. This is about a man who has suffered his wife's death and a writer's block. This is about the white shroud thing and about the ringing moose's bell and weeping dead children and moving magnets on the refridgerator. This is just about freakin' brilliant!

How can you not love these words: ''Do you know how the sun looks at the end of a hot day in August, all orange and somehow squashed, as if an invisible hand were pushing down on the top of it and at any moment it might just pop like an overfilled mosquito and splatter all over the horizon?''

Of course, amongst my favorites are also: ''I could picture John Storrow sitting alone in his Park Avenue office, bellowing like a lunatic and scaring the cleaning ladies'' ; ''go on, put an egg in your shoe and beat it'' ; ''run like the gingerbread man'' ; ''the bookberry three had died'' ; ''basic thousand-yard stare'' and ''the Book-of-the-Month Club Gestapo''. I could go on and on, but I just feel I have to stop.

Anyway, I haven't finished reading it yet. There are several more pleasant evenings for me left to spend with Michael Noonan. Several more evenings to be scared along with him, to raise my head from the book to check if my surroundings were OK, if they were the usual ones, to listen if I didn't hear eerie crying of a child or thumping in the basement. That's how vivid it is.
Well for one thing I am sure - I'm glad I have no magnetic alphabet on the door of my fridge.