(from sometime in 2020) . . . . The eight o’clock howls began tonight with the shriek of a woman and some crazed percussion on a ceramic pot followed by scattered shouts and shrieks and whistles and ululations and frantic beating on bongos and boxes and beer bottles till literally hundreds of unseen voices join in, welling up from the hills like a drunken audience demanding an encore and then, suddenly, it ends and all is silence again.
Just realized l‘ve spent the last ninety mins looking for just the right wooden box kinda thing for my desk. Retired guy trapped in the house syndrome. If I’d been a stoned retired guy trapped in the house I would have already bought several and be eating cold pizza by now. If I’d been a drunk retired guy trapped in the house I’d have forgotten all about the box and been looking at porn. But I’m the buzzed on coffee retired guy trapped in the house looking at hundreds of boxes seeking just the right one.