Sometimes when you're laying there in bed, just with the company of your thoughts, you begin to hear the quiet noises of the house: the popping joists--the creaking windows just warming with the morning sun. And then there are the birds making time in the trees; they are still around even though it is turning off quite cold lately. And then there is the droning buzz of the refrigerator.

It clicks off, and you feel a twist of hunger in your gut. But you lay there, quiet, eyes half open, without your thoughts now, feeling the morning like a cat on a shag rug.

It is raining.

The rose bushes in the side yard have decided to bloom again.

We had a good day in class discussing the intricacies of structure in Much Ado About Nothing.

The power went out in the middle of class, and I kept going without even batting an eye.

Well housemate Jeff has been to the new Tap Room (a name with some amount of history here in the SH) several times now, so it seems I should be getting down there. So tonight's the night. Anyway, I have been to the old Tap Room, now a nameless bar, lots of time back in the good-old-days. It is about the size of a postage stamp inside. It still has quite a following of regulars. I get claustrophobia, however.

What do you do on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Why you build a window well Zen garden! (You can see even more exciting yet somehow peaceful pictures at The Eye of Orris.)

We demand beer if you steal this idea.