Here at work, there is a rail yard right next door. Sometimes in the early morning I can hear them sounding off when they come into the yard. It reminds me of the suburbs. Quiet moments in the car with people I love. Mirah lilting from the stereo, my icy breathe fogging the windows. Today, the trains make me want to warm myself under mountainous piles of blankets. When it comes time to turn the clock back, I'm not so sure I'll survive it. I'm not so sure about anything.

Can you believe that we are half-way through this month already? I have the beginnings of a cold right now, which I plan on conquering. I was wondering why I have been exhausted lately, and today it kicked me right in the face. The way I feel right now can only be described by the onomatopoeia 'ugh'. I would definitely consider that an onomatopoeia, by the way, for I sound the way I feel. Today, I will eat all my vegetables and drink lots of tea. Tomorrow, I will be better than ever, right?

In other news, Paul and I have put ourselves on a budget. I love this idea. I definitely need help budget-wise, and taking control of the planning is helping me understand my flaws. Though, they were pretty obvious to begin with.

Today is the beginning of the last quarter of this month. We know what that means, right? Oh yes, PMS. Let’s go. It's on.

'Twas a very good weekend. Among other things, we finished painting our living room. We had done all but one wall, and considering the time it took us to do it, you'd think it was the Great Wall of China. Our living room now feels seperate from the rest of the house, like a little nook to cuddle in, a cranny to croon in. It's painted a light purple-blue, a blue that reminds me of a cool, bright morning. The first couple of days we were in the house, I made a lamp out of a wine bottle that Paul loves (Red Bicyclette), with a dark blue lampshade. I put the lamp on a small book shelf in the corner and switched it on. I put a little flower pot with (fake) red, orange and yellow carnations practically overflowing everywhere on top of our tv, and they popped out from the walls. The room was completely different, it had a new mood. A calm and soothing mood. That was just what we needed to lure us in and keep us there. I promptly fell asleep.

Do you ever feel like howling at the moon? Tonight, I do.

I see you everywhere I want to, and I just don't like it.


Edit (unrelated):

Is it possible to fall in love with a fictional character? Lordy.

You shouldn't misinterpret my mystery for some off form of betrayal or aberration. I understand though, the only person I know who is worse than me is my father. The most straight-forward, obstinate man I know, yet still retains a immense and cryptic form of depth.

I had a great weekend. Paul and I did many things. Most important of them all, we went to New York City, and visited the Guggenheim. We saw the Zaha Hadid exhibit. She is an amazing architect, and she reminds me very much of the Fountainhead. Her work is futuristic and organic, and at the same time, and she encompasses the public space and well being into her building. Check her out, she is a genius.

In other news, I have finished Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates. The ending was less intense than Jitterbug Perfume but it definitely left me satisfied. In Jitterbug, the very last sentence of the book made the story complete. I started to read Atlas Shrugged this morning, but I promptly started to fall asleep. I will re-start it when I get home from work today, it's too hard to start a book when I am exhausted. I definitely could have used another day, but I'm not sure if I would have felt better coming back to work later, or if I would have felt better missing another day. Hmm...

Today, I bought Linguistics: An Introduction by Andrew Radford, Martin Atkinson, David Britain, Harald Clahsen, and Andrew Spencer. (I hope it doesn't take that many people to read this book!) The other book about the lost languages is apparently for a skill level I have not quite reached. So, being fascinated, I am starting to read up on linguistics. It all sounds so easy, but I assure you it isn't. Originially I was going to get The Story of Writing by Andrew Robinson, thinking I would be on the right track, but no, I was being mislead. Apparently in linguistics, writing is considered to be secondary to speech. Makes quite a bit of sense considering you don't start to learn to write until atleast a few years after you learn to talk. So, now that I'm on the right track, I shall be writing novels on deciphering scripts before Einstein can come back to life and exclaim "Eureka!".

Which is to say, that will never happen...