This afternoon we returned to Nakhon Thai, and the owner’s eyes lit with that curious recognition – as though we had not simply come back, but had been expected. The gray sky hung heavy, and the neon sign glowed brighter against it, like a beacon for travelers between worlds.

We sat outside in the front space, on the concrete stage where little metal tables and chairs waited, their thin frames trembling at the touch. Around us the air carried the smell of basil and garlic, and in the distance, the traffic rose and fell like a restless river. If you listened long enough, the engines almost became voices, carrying old songs and warnings down the valley.

The meal arrived in pieces, each one an offering: chive dumplings soft and green as spring shoots; spring rolls breaking open with hidden warmth; shrimp bound in golden noodle threads, fragile and shining like charms meant to keep away ill luck. Drunken noodles with tofu came tangled, wide ribbons breathing fire and sweetness together, and the pad prik kring brought a red heat, sharp enough to wake even the cloudiest day.

Our server moved quietly, almost like a figure from a folktale – someone who appears at the edge of the story to guide you forward, and then slips back into the mist. Behind us the restaurant windows fogged, blurring the decor and the tables, while in front of us the road stretched on, carrying its endless chorus of tires and horns like the chant of unseen spirits.

When we finally rose, the concrete felt different underfoot, as if we had stepped back across a threshold. The scent of basil and chili clung to us, following close, and the roar of traffic no longer seemed like noise but like the low murmur of something vast, still speaking to us long after we had gone.

#NakhonThai #drunkennoodles #goodvegetarianfood

Morning Cat and Willow Tree Wander

Woke later than planned, greeted by the cat who has been all affectionate these days. She had her bowls filled, wet and dry, and I toasted up a bagel for myself. The new litter box seems to suit her, no complaints from either of us. My partner appeared with a chai tea from 7brew, spicy and sweet, and it brightened the morning.

Later we pulled the gang together for a visit to Willow Tree Antiques. The shelves had already turned toward Halloween, full of neat offerings, though many pieces bore the mark of reproduction drop shipper stock. Still, there was a small charm in browsing, and I spotted some Fallout metal signs. Cute enough to notice, but not the sort I would want to hang on my walls.

Current music: acoustic guitar gently circling Current mood: slow to rise, warm with company

Here’s your stacked mood chart by year 📊:

Green = Positive

Gray = Neutral

Red = Negative


This lets you see the balance of moods shift year to year:

Early years: heavier positive/neutral balance.

Mid 2000s–2010s: strong neutral dominance (lots of logs/links).

Late 2010s–2020s: negative share grows, especially around 2019 and again in 2024–25.

Here’s what the yearly mood trend shows:

📈 Early 2000s–2018: Mostly slightly positive on average. Big neutral stretches (lots of logging + links) diluted but didn’t overwhelm bursts of joy (pets, birthdays).

📉 2019: A big dip — very few posts, but negative-leaning.

⚖️ 2020–2023: Back to neutral-to-positive averages, though volume shrinks dramatically.

🌑 2024–2025: Noticeable downturn — fewer posts, with many leaning negative.


So across decades, the blog starts whimsical and balanced, dips around 2019, rebounds slightly during 2020–23, and shifts more negative in the last two years.

Day 20668 — Misfit Trim and Autumn Errands

Morning air was soft in Roanoke, carrying the first golden turn of September light. Scissors at Misfit felt less like a cut and more like a quiet ritual of renewal. Outside, a few crows traced lazy arcs over the rooftops, and the faint smell of damp earth lingered from last night’s rain. I brought the meds and pumpkin spice latte home to my sweetheart. Her smile made the errand feel more like a small joy.

The Y called next, a short return to movement, body remembering itself. Home again, the laundry’s hum filled the rooms, spin and tumble counting minutes. Evening edged closer with the promise of family dinner, plates and voices gathering in the soft glow of the room. A squirrel paused atop the fence outside, twitching its nose as the last leaves of summer clung to branches.

Later, the smell of roasted vegetables drifted from the kitchen, a brief hum of music from a neighbor’s open window blending with the autumn breeze. A single leaf twirled down the sidewalk, catching the last light of day.

Current music: Rainy Day Lo-fi with Vinyl Crackle | Soft, Warm Ambience
Current mood: trimmed, light, leaning toward the warmth of the table

A quiet moment reminded me that ordinary days can hold small gifts if I pay attention.

✅ Running this will create two files in the same folder:

cleaned_blog_posts.json → structured archive

cleaned_blog_posts.csv → spreadsheet-friendly (Excel, Google Sheets, etc.)

import re
import json
import csv
from lxml import etree

# Path to your WordPress export XML
xml_path = “thescottogrottoorg.WordPress.2025-09-04.xml”

def clean_content(html_text):
    “””Remove WordPress block tags, HTML, and excess whitespace.”””
    if not html_text:
        return “”
    text = re.sub(r”<!–.*?–>”, “”, html_text, flags=re.DOTALL)  # WP comments
    text = re.sub(r”<[^>]+>”, “”, text)  # strip HTML
    text = (text.replace(“&nbsp;”, ” “)
                .replace(“&amp;”, “&”)
                .replace(“&lt;”, “<“)
                .replace(“&gt;”, “>”)
                .replace(“&quot;”, ‘”‘)
                .replace(“&#39;”, “‘”))
    text = re.sub(r”\s+”, ” “, text).strip()
    return text

# Parse XML with recovery mode
parser = etree.XMLParser(recover=True)
tree = etree.parse(xml_path, parser)
root = tree.getroot()

posts = []
for item in root.findall(“./channel/item”):
    post_type = item.find(“{http://wordpress.org/export/1.2/}post_type”)
    status = item.find(“{http://wordpress.org/export/1.2/}status”)

    if post_type is not None and post_type.text == “post”:
        if status is not None and status.text == “publish”:
            title_el = item.find(“title”)
            date_el = item.find(“pubDate”)
            content_el = item.find(“{http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/}encoded”)

            title = title_el.text if title_el is not None else “Untitled”
            date = date_el.text if date_el is not None else “Unknown”
            content = content_el.text if content_el is not None else “”

            if content.strip():
                posts.append({
                    “title”: title.strip(),
                    “date”: date.strip(),
                    “content”: clean_content(content)
                })

# Save all cleaned posts to JSON
json_file = “cleaned_blog_posts.json”
with open(json_file, “w”, encoding=”utf-8″) as f:
    json.dump(posts, f, ensure_ascii=False, indent=2)

print(f”Saved {len(posts)} posts to {json_file}”)

# Save all cleaned posts to CSV
csv_file = “cleaned_blog_posts.csv”
with open(csv_file, “w”, encoding=”utf-8″, newline=””) as f:
    writer = csv.DictWriter(f, fieldnames=[“title”, “date”, “content”])
    writer.writeheader()
    writer.writerows(posts)

print(f”Saved {len(posts)} posts to {csv_file}”)

Status report test sept 2025

Pain Levels:  6 | 7 | 5 | …
Moods:       Calm | Achy | Contented | …
Dates:       Sept 1 | Sept 2 | Sept 3 | …

Day 20,666

Tuesday, Sep 2 – Roanoke, Virginia

Weather: warm cling of late summer, damp air holding on

Telemedicine in the morning. Cat circling for food, impatient tail flicks. FIL and I with tools in hand, trading back and forth. Old light out, new light in. Shower seams resealed, the quiet pride of a small repair done right.

(Note: silicone smells hang in the air far longer than expected. House now faintly like a hardware aisle.)

Later errands. CVS for meds. 7Brew stop, gummy bear fizz and black mamba for her. Bright sugar pause.

(Observation: gummy bear fizz does not taste like gummy bears, but the name makes me smile every time.)

Back home, then out again. Tuesday LEAP farmers market, rows of corn and tomatoes, familiar vendors calling out.

(Found myself noting the peach table, skipped for me, though my sweetie lingers there with interest.)

Dinner at Sudha’s Kitchen, spice and warmth filling the table. Closed with Madame Blanc on AcornTV, another layer of puzzle before sleep.

(Suspicion: the cat prefers the show’s theme music over mine.)

Small rhythms, shared work, errands and supper.

Hashtags:

#lifelog #roanoke #farmersmarket #indiandinner #telemedicine #painlog #moodlog

Early Afternoon

It was early afternoon at the edge of the milkweed. The light was sharp but kind, carrying both the warmth of the day and a hint of late summer’s slowing pace. We had only wandered out to check the blooms while waving goodbye to our breakfast guests, expecting nothing more than color and the usual hum, but the moment held me still.

A wasp perched among the cluster of flame orange flowers. Its wings were closer to onyx, as if carved from dark glass and polished in secret. Against the blaze of petals, it looked both alien and perfect.

There was no sense of menace, only grace. The wasp moved slowly, drinking, balancing, shifting from one petal to the next. Each pause seemed to hold its own weight, like punctuation pressed into the afternoon.

The garden’s ordinary song carried on around us. Cicadas called, leaves swayed, bees moved past in their familiar dawdles. Yet the rhythm of this single wasp made all else fade, as if it had become the keeper of the hour.

When it lifted, wings flashing dark in the sunlight, I felt the absence as if a small door had closed. The flowers bent back into their own stillness. I stayed there for a while longer, with the image of onyx wings tucked into my thoughts, carrying the quiet with me.

#bluewingedwasp
#roanokeva
#backyardzoo

The Occult Footprints Log

Some things in the valley do not stay buried. The hills keep their fog and their secrets close. Over time, a pattern has crept into my notebooks. The strange impressions left behind, year after year, on the ground of Roanoke and its neighboring shadows. Barefoot, clawed, or otherwise, they arrive in the quiet hours, vanish just as quick, and never seem quite human.

Below is the log as I have kept it, three years of careful entries. I share them here not as proof, only as record.


—

Year One — Beginnings

January
Snow over Yellow Sulphur Springs. One set of bare prints trailing to the sycamore, ending abruptly.

February
Sulfur sting in the caverns, dust scuffed by dragging toes.

March
Rain-soft mud near Hanging Rock, prints leaping like no human stride.

April
Loops of tracks near Mill Mountain overlook, rain erasing them before I could trace further.

May
Blackened circles in grass, edged with small strange prints.

June
Three tracks waiting side by side in cavern dust, then gone.

July
Five sets of impressions on the slope, scoured smooth before I returned.

August
Narrow heel to toe prints pacing Patterson Avenue block by block.

September
Circling prints round a tree trunk, as if watching endlessly.

October
Barefoot impressions in alley leading to warm brick wall.

November
Deep riverbank marks ending beneath the current.

December
Two prints in snow at Mill Mountain’s edge, then only white silence.

Visual cue: imagine snow faintly embossed with strange, precise footsteps under the glow of the neon star above the valley.


—

Year Two — Echoes

January
Thick fog. Footprints appeared overnight across my porch, wet outlines steaming in the cold. None led away.

February
Cavern lantern cracked. The group left early. I stayed and found the wall damp with handprints pressed high overhead.

March
Near the duck pond, muddy prints too wide for a man. Ducks avoided the water that day.

April
Bonfire rumor again. Smoke seen drifting from Yellow Sulphur, though no fire crews came. Prints this time were in pairs, one large, one small, circling.

May
I dreamed of drumming, woke to see dust stirred on the windowsill inside my locked room. Five small prints in a row.

June
Heat lightning in the caverns. Rock smelled of ozone. Prints were not on the floor but high up the wall, like something had climbed sideways.

July
River low. Children playing found impressions of knees, hands, and something tail-like pressed in mud.

August
Neighbor swore she saw pale figures watching from Patterson turret. That night I saw them too, but the prints on the sidewalk below were claw tipped.

September
Circles burned again into grass near the old springhouse. No ash this time, only frost, though the night was warm.

October
Theatre alley same wall as last year. This time the prints were smaller, leading out of the brick.

November
Cold rain. I followed tracks across the cemetery until they stopped before a stone angel, toes pressed against its base.

December
Snowfall heavy. No prints all day, but in the morning writing appeared traced in them. Three words I did not know. Letters sank deep, like weight pressed them.

Imagery cue: envision dim candlelight flickering across footprints and half-erased symbols in mud and dust.


—

Year Three — Patterns

January
New year. I kept watch at Yellow Sulphur. Snow fell clean, unbroken. Just before dawn a line of prints appeared all at once, stretching across the entire field in a single instant.

February
Inside the caverns faint humming echoed. Dust held no prints, but condensation drew shapes on the stone, toe marks outlined in water beads.

March
Thunderstorm rolled through. After, in the mud, I found impressions moving both forward and backward, as if one figure retraced its steps exactly.

April
Star on the mountain went out for maintenance. For those three nights prints multiplied near its base, hundreds, weaving like a crowd.

May
The old resort showed signs of trespass. Candles melted on the floor, wax pooled thick. Around them overlapping barefoot tracks that never left the building.

June
Heat shimmered. Cavern tour interrupted by sudden blackout. When lights returned dust bore a child-sized footprint leading toward the exit. The group swore no children were present.

July
River swelled with summer storms. Debris floated down. Among branches and trash a shoe, waterlogged, no pair. The mudbank bore a single matching track.

August
Turret house on Patterson Avenue condemned, boards nailed tight. Still, people whisper of a face at the top window. That week I found prints on the sidewalk below, facing outward as if watching the street.

September
At the edge of town a circle of mushrooms appeared. Inside the ring every blade of grass lay flattened by tiny prints spiraling inward.

October
Halloween crowd outside the theatre. Amid their scuffs I noticed a single barefoot trail, crisp, sharp, as if pressed hours later. It led to my own shadow.

November
Frost clung to gravestones. On one, words formed in crystalline footprints: wait.

December
Silent snow, the valley hushed. I expected the usual pair at the overlook, but this year four sets together, lined neatly at the cliff’s edge, gazing out.

Visual cue: picture a cliffside blanketed in snow, four silent watchers outlined in footprints, under the steady glow of Mill Mountain’s star.


—

Closing

Three years, and the valley has not run out of strangeness. The footprints come and go, unclaimed, unchased, unbroken in their pattern. Some say it is tricks of weather, or the wandering of trespassers, or the fancies of a restless imagination.

But in quiet moments, when I find myself following them, I wonder if it is the other way around. Are they are the ones following me?

I joined the ghost walk just after sundown, the air cooling quick in that Blue Ridge way, where the warmth of day drains fast once the sun slips behind the ridges. The guide’s lantern cast a soft circle as we moved through Salem’s narrow streets. Crickets stitched their steady chorus into the background, and every so often a breeze carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from a chimney already preparing for autumn.

Most of the stories were familiar shapes, soldiers, sudden deaths, whispered names of old hotels and graveyards, but when the guide began to speak of the Pinkard house the tone shifted. The group leaned in as if pulled closer by the story itself.

She told us about John Henry Pinkard, the folk healer of the late 1800s, known for his jars of roots and tinctures. People came to him when doctors had no answers, and sometimes he helped. Sometimes he did not. What lingered, though, was stranger. The shelves of jugs were said to cry at night, their sealed mouths releasing low moans like breath struggling to escape. Some neighbors said it was only the gases of fermenting herbs. Others believed the jars had absorbed the voices of sickness, that the house itself had become a keeper of grief.

Even after Pinkard was gone, the house never grew quiet. Passersby swore they saw a figure slip across the windows, or felt a heaviness press against their chest as they walked by, as if the building itself was paying close attention. The guide paused then, and the silence of the street seemed to deepen. The insects still sang, but softer, and the cool air carried just enough stillness to make the tale feel near.

There was no violent history to anchor the story, no single bloody tragedy. Just a house that remembered every whispered prayer and every final breath that crossed its threshold. The kind of haunting that does not scream but sighs.

By the time the walk ended and I made my way back toward the car, the streets were nearly empty. Porch lights glowed here and there, throwing shadows across old fences. I found myself glancing up at the darker houses, wondering which one might have been the Pinkard place, wondering if even now it still remembered, if somewhere inside, a jar was letting out a slow, sorrowful breath into the night air.

Saturday night, rain steady outside. One of those nights where the streetlights look blurry and the whole world feels a little softer. Made some chamomile tea and put on Working Girl. Been a while since I last saw it, but it’s still such a comfort watch.

Melanie Griffith’s Tess McGill is the heart of it. A Staten Island secretary with brains, nerve, and that quiet kind of hope you recognize if you’ve ever felt underestimated. Sigourney Weaver is all sleek suits and sharp edges as Katharine Parker. Harrison Ford grins his way through as Jack Trainer, but he softens in the right places.

Mike Nichols captures late 80s New York like a living thing. Office lights buzzing, taxis honking, the smell of copier toner and coffee you can almost taste. Carly Simon’s “Let the River Run” rolls over it all like a hymn, and suddenly you believe Tess can climb her way to the top with nothing but grit and a borrowed suit.

Watching it now feels like finding an old Polaroid in a shoebox — colors faded, but alive. Tess feels real. She could be someone you’d see at a diner counter, scribbling plans in a notebook over a cup of coffee that’s gone cold.

Saw a possum wander past the window while the rain kept on, steady and soft. The kind of small moment that makes you smile without thinking. By the time the credits rolled, I felt lighter. The movie’s a reminder that ambition can be kind, and stubbornness can be gentle.

A good film for a rainy night.

Morning window-light, cat perched sentinel, ears flicking at the robin’s sharp tut-tut-tut from the flag stake outside. She has claimed the yard as her kingdom for now. Her breast is bright as ember, feathers ruffled with purpose. Every step past the hedge, every tilt of the curtain, draws her vigilance. I imagine her heart beating faster than my own, a drumbeat of protection.

Later, I peek into the maple and find the reason: two tiny beaks stretching skyward, tufted crowns of down and pinfeathers, not yet ready to know the sky. The nest is a woven cradle of sticks and hope, a cradle that breathes with each soft tremor of chicks begging for more. Their eyes are half-closed, but their hunger burns awake.

The robin watches me watching, neither of us entirely trusting, but both bound to this moment. She sings less now, too busy with duty, worms plucked from the damp soil and delivered with tenderness disguised as efficiency. Fierce and tireless, a flame against the green world.

The cat sighs from the sill, thwarted hunter behind glass, while I feel the tug of seasons, how life unfurls in branches, how small voices become the loud chorus of summer. For now, the robin stands guard, and I stand witness.