It's one of those overcast days that make me happy, homebound, productive. Today I'll fix soup out of abandoned stuff in the fridge - leftover chicken, mashed potatoes, lima beans, and write a piece of my novel, go downstairs to read old newspapers, wear sweats and socks and work on projects from home rather than drive to the office. Cloudy days are sexy in a low-key way. I do my best work when expectations are simple. Too much sun rattles me. I don't want to be pushed around by cheerfulness. We need rain and a front is on its way after so many days of high pressure, clear skies, temps in the 80s. Doesn't New Orleans know this is Fall? I don't know why I'm so hooked into weather, but I am. The sky's like some giant set and the sun's the director giving me cues. I hate cues. I've been craving low light. Which reminds me that a friend of mine just wrote a beautiful story called "Galveston" and I've had that song in my head now, so I found Jimmy Webb on the web and I'm listening. He wrote so many good songs, even MacArthur Park, which he sings plainer and sadder than Richard Harris. But what's with that up-tempo last part? He should've quit before that started. Which could also be said about this post. Oh well.