Surprises and it isn't even my birthday

I trawl over to LJ to post and find that LJ has changed since yesterday. More links, more userpics, and more information than I ever could have wanted. I'll have to check it all out, but not today. Today the sun is a weak ball of fuzzy light peering through the clouds with just enough force to make me squint, but not enough that I can't look directly into it. Then I remember what my optometrist told me about wearing sunglasses whenever the sun is out, even if it's behind the clouds. However, it seems a little strange to go Ray Charles when I'm working inside at my desk. Then again, the sun does shine brightly in here without window coverings and I have to change positions frequently to even be able to read what's on my screen. Good thing I don't watch what I type, huh?

The sun is a watery yellow-white in a grey-white sky from horizon to infinity. The mountains outside my windows are a deep purple smudge and I can see them clearly now that the landlady had vandals come and chainsaw one of the arms off because it was touching the roof. The crotch where the squirrels perform their pornographic shows is still partially there, but their back drop is gone and that severely hampers their Dorothy Lamour long line stretches. Or at least I can't see them since they chose to use the other upright arms and the trunk blocks my view. Now the tree looks like an upraised fist in a two-fingered salute. At least I can see more of the mountains and the gold-studded hills at the base of the midnight folded line of peaks.

The new house across the street has been spray painted a golden tan with white trim and a red door and all the hammering, nailing, and noise is on the inside. They haul in sheet rock and disappear into the depths, coming out again when the sun paints a bloody swath across the horizon and fades into dusk.

Despite all the cars rumbling by, the streets are empty and silent. The street sweepers swish by, lights flashing and rotary brooms bristling away the dirt and rocks and leafy debris. Except for the few cars parked here and there and obscured by trees, the neighborhood is ghostly in its silence and calm, as if waiting for life and sound and activity, a blank sound stage between filmings.

And I have to work. All I want to do is throw on some clothes, don my sunglasses and get lost in the car breathing the smoky autumn air and following the scents of cooking and people and life. I feel as though I've been chained to this desk for ages. I need to get out and breathe and do something other than work for a few hours. I need to brush against humanity and rub shoulders with other seekers before I return to responsibility and schedules and dictations and work.