Tag Archives: #rainymornings

Day 21,015

Sunday started well with a breakfast of egg, veggie sausage, and cheese on maple biscuits, which was honestly better than a McGriddle. We are having the house AC inspected this morning. Afterward, I plan to visit a new mechanic named Jarl. On our ride home Saturday, the yellow check engine light came on… I hoped that tightening the gas cap would fix it, but it didn’t. Hopefully, Jarl can resolve the issue, and I also want to explore upgrading our headlights for better visibility.

Speaking of Saturday, we had a pretty successful outing for gathering little treasures. We picked up some cute stickers and four mystery date books: James, God of the Woods, Life Cycle of the Common Octopus, and From Blood and Ash. We also grabbed a bunch of craft supplies, including some wooden pieces to paint, craft yarn, and tiny watercolor paint sets.

Along with an autumn puzzle and some treasures for friends, I found some great Matchbox cars. I picked up three art cars, specifically two ’57 Chevys, with letters all over them and a smashed-up Mondrian design. I also grabbed a lucky cat, a hot dog, and a sushi car, which were all picked out for BHK. While we were out and about, we managed to spot a red, white, and blue train all painted up for America’s 250th.


Tonight, we are keeping dinner simple with quesadillas. For screen time, we will be polishing off Nautilus since we have one episode left. It was a cute, albeit non-canon, diversion for 10 episodes.

Day 20, 701 syntax and soil



day 20,701 – salem, cool and gray

Rain threads through the morning, fine and steady. The town feels hushed, all motion dampened. I sit by the window with a warm cup, watching clouds rearrange themselves like code rewriting in real time.

Most of the day I’ve been building quiet systems – lines of logic, small constellations of purpose. There’s a rhythm in it, a kind of meditation. The same rhythm hums beneath the leaves when I walk later, when I stop by the creek and watch ripples braid and unbraid themselves.

I think often about how both worlds run – nature and the machine – each governed by invisible syntax. Maybe that’s where I fit: in the space between the script and the soil, trying to make one sound like the other.

Evening will come soft. I’ll step outside and breathe in the wet earth, the cool air. Everything feels compiled just enough to begin again.