Days between stations

I'm in a bit of a holding pattern right now, in-between big events, waiting for things to happen as opposed to making them happen. I suspect that Nicole's cold is going to migrate over to me sooner rather than later which will give me an opportunity to either dig in to some of the things heading my way or else infect everyone at my office. I'm uncertain as to which is preferable right now.

If all goes well, I'll be bring my father home from the hospital next Friday. The list of things that might not go well is imposing, but this particular visit has gone better than we had any right to expect, so it's no unrealistic to hope. He's not in pain right now, but he's bored, and that's almost as bad seeing as he'll be there for most of the week. I talk to him every day, but it's my sister who's been with him every day bless her for that.

I'm getting married in a couple of months, but apparently, that wasn't enough stress for me, so I'm going to be presenting at a conference in Vegas in October as well. One of the few things I fear more than public speaking is letting people down, so, I suppose this is the lesser of two evils. If nothing else, it gave me a lot to discuss with my therapist. I haven't seen her write so much on her pad in years.

I can see why people get cynical about change as they get older. You start to recognize cycles, things repeating rather than truly changing, like little clockwork gears turning, each fad or fashion on its own timetable. The longer you've live, the bigger the gear you can see coming back around to its start. I'm not just saying this because I saw that bell bottom jeans are coming back into style for the third time in m memory, but mostly I am.


Neil Gaiman recycling Ovid to great effect.

Neil Gaiman recycling Ovid to great effect.

It's late and I'm babbling a little, so I think I'll shut it down for the night. Before I go, though, here's the original image which was the basis for the header of this post. The sky was putting on a show the other night. I only regret that I didn't get any of the lightning which was spiderwebbing its way through the cloud.


P.S. The title for this post comes from Steve Erickson's novel of the same name, which I haven't read. I have, however, read Tours of the Black Clock, and Days Between Stations would have been just as appropriate a name for it. Knowing Erickson's work, this was entirely intentional and probably means something.