If Wishes Were Horses

Alan Rickman, the British actor, was dressed in a black jacket and rubbing my ankle; I didn't believe it, but there he was.  He was massaging away, head bent over in concentration, and then meowed: rowr rowr rrrrrt?  The dream flew to the ceiling and I paddled to half-consciousness; Rickman had turned into Steve the cat, who was having a middle of the night date with my leg.   Really, this was a surprise as the cat is getting less interested in this sort of nonsense, mainly as self-preservation from the tired-of-your-sorry-ass girl cats who  put up with nothing.  He still has a retaliatory chomp mark on his neck that is healing from his last bad idea, ministrations of peroxide and sulfate daily.

This morning, I continued with the applesauce project, pleased that a change in weather brought in much cooler temperatures that get people thinking of hot food, of stirring things that take hours of a fire to accomplish.  Cats are more wont to lay in your lap, you can put real clothing on, and entering a parked car is comfortable.  Open a car door on summer's black asphalt day, and you are hit with a wall of hot air that literally pushes you back like a small blast furnace.  I am grateful for the cooler days of socks and blankets,  of a cake in the oven and a pot on the stove, of breathing the refreshing lake air in gulps as I walk down to the rocks.

I wish the clouds would go, there is a supernova that exploded twenty-one million years ago and is visible near the handle of the Big Dipper, best viewing around this Wednesday/Thursday.  Scientists are looking towards this Type 1a flare for theoretical support that either the universe is flying apart, accelerated by an unknown force labeled dark energy; or that the regal force of gravity just doesn't work the same everywhere.  Fabulous.  Whoosh.

Time now for another blanket to be settled over the bed; jars have been put up, plans for another variety this weekend.  Life goes on in one way or another, sometimes looking back is not such a bad thing, contrary to the story concerning pillars of salt.  I am glad to refind canning things, it gives me a sense of continuity and son Brian is already planning a trip for applesauce.  He reports that nets have been put around the spires at the National Cathedral, as the repair work goes on at a feverish pace to ready the place for a September 11th service.  He will sleep tonight under a deepening sky, under light from twenty-one million years ago, light that saw a cooling earth and the formation of grasslands for running herds.  Dream of things to be, of things that were; sleep well, my love to you stays always.