Shadows and Light

I can never decide if people notice when I take a day off from blogging.

After five plus years of detailing so much - heartbreak, meals ate, music seen, what books mean - almost every single day, it's hard to gauge if anyone realizes when I step back briefly.

Oh, I know people notice when I lean way back like I did last August and stopped blogging entirely for a week, but does a missing day merit notice? Hard to say.

And yet it's so much a habit that I notice when I don't bother sharing.

Today dawned late for me because I went to bed just as the birds were starting their morning songs.

It's not something I do often anymore, but it was a night for talking and listening to albums like Joni Mitchell's "Hissing of Summer Lawns" beginning with the exquisitely poetic, "In France They Kiss on Main Street." In Richmond, they kiss on Clay Street.

Sometimes the music doesn't end until it's almost 5 a.m.

Once the afternoon sun roused me, I invited my photographer friend to join me for a walk after I awoke to a message instructing, "Holla!"

I led him down through Monroe Ward, across the expressway, past Ethyl's "no trespassing" sign to the river to hear the sound of it rushing by and admire the blue of it on this impossibly warm day.

There's just something about the sound of moving water that soothes the soul, so we took advantage of it by strolling Brown's Island, walking the sandy trail to the pipeline, underwater so unwalkable, and back up to the island to traverse the truncated bridge out across the river where the sound of it obliterated anything else, at least until a train began approaching and he began filming it.

My goal was to wave to the guys in the engine and get them to wave at me (successful), which may or may not have put the back of my head and hand in frame.

Then it was the slow mount up the big hill and back home.

Last night's birthday party brought together a small but party-minded group of restaurant types, agricultural engineers, small business owners and a couple who renovate and turn houses for an evening of food, pink bubbles, brown liquor and fiddle music.

Best line overheard when an old-timey song came on: "That's my uncle Larry- in-law." Pretty sure there's no such thing.

But my favorite conversation was with a guy who's recently reunited with his former beloved and he made an analogy that, like a talented band, they were getting back together for another go at making beautiful music together.

"But not for a single," he clarified. "For a full album, maybe two. But that doesn't mean kids." I gave him high points for his romantic and musical metaphor.

By the end of the night, the birthday girl was only somewhat loopy but her husband's world was spinning, meaning a good time was had by all.

Sunday had wound down with a bottle of wine, a princepessa pizza - sausage, onions, mushrooms, spinach garlic and oil - at Ariana's with the Sunday Washington Post for reading material.

It was a low key meal, at least until a woman took her child into the ladies' room and the girl began shrieking, "I don't want that! I don't want that in me!" followed by blood-curdling screams.

It certainly wasn't very conducive to good digestion.

The night ended at the Criterion Cinemas for the Oscar pick for best picture of the year, "12 Years a Slave," with only four other people in attendance.

I'm not going to lie, it was an extremely difficult film to watch because it was based on a true story of a free black man kidnapped and brutally enslaved at a series of southern plantations with owners of varying degrees of humanity.

A powerful film and one not soon forgotten.

Which is a good thing, since I didn't get around to writing about it for a couple of days. Not that anyone would have noticed.

Feet on the ground, head in the sky, I know nothing's wrong. Everything's absolutely wonderful.