A warm breeze comes through my window. It’s January in southern California, a continuation of the warm, dry fall. Might we have a heat wave, like the record-breaking temps at the end January, 1995? I remember spending days at the beach, evenings preparing Mai-Tais and buffalo wings, and letting myself believe the weather would last until fall. Two weeks later, it was cold, gray, and raining, and I was in bed with a sinus infection. February and March are southern California’s cold, rainy months. But, for now, it’s warm and clear, like a beautiful Provencal evening.
I’ve rediscovered opera. The tragedies, strangely, satisfy some spot that otherwise preoccupies me, having suffered a recent sting at work (as well as the family blowup, which hasn’t changed). Misery perhaps does love company, and I am trying to use time wisely; La Boheme and La Traviata seem to be hitting the spot. (And oh, how I love Nabucco!) So, for the moment, I’m spending time with Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon. And a whiskey.
- PJ
I’ve rediscovered opera. The tragedies, strangely, satisfy some spot that otherwise preoccupies me, having suffered a recent sting at work (as well as the family blowup, which hasn’t changed). Misery perhaps does love company, and I am trying to use time wisely; La Boheme and La Traviata seem to be hitting the spot. (And oh, how I love Nabucco!) So, for the moment, I’m spending time with Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon. And a whiskey.
- PJ
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