Now, constant craving for sun-colored foods: brilliant gold pulp of winter squash and sweet potatoes, the scalding bright yolk of egg-drop soup, slippery sweet mangoes, or even the thinly-sliced, ear-shaped whorls of orange pepper.

Weird bioluminescence. Transfusion of heat, and yellow flicker, and light.

Tonight the wind has blossomed up out of the dark like something feral grown much-too-large too fast. It shimmies the window panes loose and insinuates itself in through the cracks. It trades fours with the furnace and hurls itself up against the walls. It won't let me be.

I draw a hot bath after midnight, play Miles Davis' Kind of Blue way too loud.

(Did you know Kind of Blue was laid down in just one take?)

I am pissing off the downstairs neighbors yet again.

(That ether and vapor of Bill Evans' piano intro to "So What?")

I can't help it, though.

(How did I not know that tiny, pale yellow flame was there?)

I was surprised because I didn't know. Really, I had no idea.

(The truth: It's not even that I mind the wind so much, although once I loved someone who said it made her crazy. And angry. But me . . . secretly, I like the unease of it, the disrupted complacencies. Secretly, I like to listen to that wildness in the dark.)

Yesterday, C. said to me, "I feel like a blown fuse," and it made us both laugh.

Very much enjoyed...

I am very much in love with the green meat of the avocado right now and I think you should wake you neighbors more often.

The green meat of avocado is definitely worthy of much love, T., and yes . . . neighbors are meant to be woken, are they not?