Post Christmas

and listening to the Clash.  Sliced my finger open on Christmas, bad enough to ask someone to take me to the hospital.  Thankfully, there wasn't much of a wait, even if the care was slightlty questionable (how they dealt with the blood, they didn't look at it, didn't clean it, I pulled off the guaze and they glued it shut.  At least no stitches, though.)  It's been in a splint.  I can take it off tomorrow, I haven't looked at it, but it doesn't hurt, so I'll take that as a good sign.  In the meantime, I can't cook or anything, and I went to get my hair cut this afternoon just so someone could wash it.  (I've been needing to get it cut anyway, so did that too.)  And finally went to DSW to find a pair of dressy shoes so I could send the boots to be repaired.  I'm trying to not be in public too much, it's the middle finger and I appear to be flipping everyone off.  Someone said that at least the bandage looks like a bandage.

I'm typing with one hand.  No writing tonight.  I could probably do the Suzuki exercises, though.  And read a couple plays (Letts.)

I drove back early this morning, just as the sun had risen.  The passing of time did nothing to lighten the day.  The clouds were so heavy, hanging moodily in the forests.  There was no other traffic on the way to the ferry dock, I think I saw three other cars going the same direction the whole time.  (Lots of hawks, though.)

Now it's breaking up enough to allow for views of the stars and a half moon.  Time to stop typing.