Can't seem to stop working long enough to blog. What's up with that, anyway? This is me pausing to reach out. Thanks, everybody, for your great recent comments.

I have received in the post a postcard from smallponderings Mark, a beautiful poet's timepiece. And another postcard from Dr. O, a sweet sketch in ink of the Omed family's new kitten, Loki. Both go up on the bookmark board...

Wheeeewww... it's 3:30pm and I'm [interruption... teen couple browses... smiles, leaves] running out of steam. I've acquired several (many) thousand books from the Main St. thrift store going out of business this weekend, as well as a pine bookshelf, and a sidewalk OPEN sign, and I hope no bad karma.

Snowed overnight, half-inch. Very cold today, but the sun shines, at least. I put down a red blanket in the straw-floored shed for Ranger, so he'll understand where to go when he is cold until I get home from town after dark.

P.J. has left for Los Angeles. Another gift: she gave me a store-bought bar of handmade lavender soap and the key to her house—BATHS!! I can't wait.

I have a new CD called Sounds from a Bygone Age, Volume 1. Romanian gypsy music recorded in 1976 in Bucharest. Ion Petre Stoican, violinist. But it's the horas that feature an instrument called a

cymbalom that delight my soul (according to the notes: "accompanied by the cymbalom god

Toni Iordache..."). Now I must track down more cymbalom music, perhaps even name the bookstore "Cymbalom." It sounds like a cross between a hammered dulcimer and a toy piano, only louder, and so incredibly happy.
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