I turned 48 last week, and it was almost as uneventful as I’d hoped. I preemptively took the week off so I spent most of the time relaxing, eating out occasionally, or otherwise doing absolutely nothing constructive. I really needed that.
Since her adoption, Ursula has spent two weeks with free reign around the house, yet she primarily constrains herself to my office. Perched atop the cat tree, she surveys and judges, and growls should any other feline dare to darken her domain.
Jen and I went down to the local animal shelter a couple of weeks ago and delivered 16 pound bag of kitten food after they asked for donations on their Facebook page. While there, we went into the section where they keep the cats, because I wanted to look at a couple they had on their weekly bulletin.
For some reason last night, I dreamed that I was going to give a speech some time later, and as part of it, I wanted to recite the opening of the Canterbury Tales. I believe my intent was to denote that the beauty of the prose can only be truly conveyed with proper pronunciation of the Middle English that has essentially been lost to time with the evolution of the language. And that we can progress with our lives and produce works just as aesthetic which will be similarly tied to our times and regions, but no less impactful.