Dear my ten o'clock walk,

Every night at about nine thirty, Bruiser turns to us--sometimes he's been lying, head on paws, between us; sometimes he enters the room, as if to make an important announcement--and makes it clear that it's time, time now to head out for a walk. We, on the other hand, are never ready before ten, a fact we generally explain to Bruiser, an explanation he generally accepts, and not grudgingly, because he is not a grudging dog. It's not in his nature.

Ten o'clock is the best time for an evening walk, especially right now, in the fall. In the summer, I think we can all remember ten o'clocks that were still a little sultry, and ten o'clock walks that made us all feel a little draggy. No one likes a draggy walk. I myself prefer a brisk walk, which is why fall nights are the best nights for walking--they are all the way cooled down. Bruiser likes the slight chill in the air as well. He is alert to the night. His tail curves up, and he trots along at a smartish pace, unless he scents something worth halting for. It's either trotting or halting--no half measures.

Briskness, my ten o'clock walk, is one thing you have going for you. Another is that by ten o'clock, the neighborhood has quieted down. Yes, there are occasional dogs that like to talk a good game from behind their fences, and an infrequent cat or three or four, walking with insouciance across our path, or watching us coolly from behind a truck tire or under the lamplight on a porch. But the kids are in bed, the bikes are put away. No delivery trucks or garbage trucks or mailmen to distract us. It's just us and the night air and the sprinklers, still going in October, blooms of mist bedazzling the grass and painting the sidewalks wet.

And the moon, taking its time in the sky. As we walk west, then north, then east, then south again, we reorient ourselves, finding the moon tangled in the branches of the tallest trees, or fitted into the saddle of a mountain ridge, or sailing free, high, high. We observe how quickly it begins to wane once it has been full, and then how it burgeons once it has whittled down to a sliver. Every night, it is our treasure. We even like seeing it illuminate a sky full of clouds.

I have lately begun taking a late afternoon walk by myself. I love it because I can move fast, I can put music in my ears, because it is a full measure of light and I feel free. But, my ten o'clock walk, I love the way you are a ritual to end the day, that you involve a covenant with a dog, that your mise en scene is the quiet streets of our own neighborhood, and that you are always, always blessed with a traveling moon.

till tomorrow,

htms

Method of Modern Love.

Walking down the street, plugged into my iPod, Hall & Oates:

Me: [singing, and none too quietly]  ♩♪ ♪♫  M-E-T-H-O . . .
  
Guy, working in his yard, deadheading dandelions. Looks up.

Me: [                   ] [walking on, looking neither right nor left]

Guy, looks back down at his dandelions. Keeps snapping off their nimbusy heads.

Me: [fifteen, twenty yards away, not looking back] . . . -O-F-L-O-V-E, 

It's a method of modern love.  ♩♪ ♪♫

--because singing blue-eyed soul in the streets is the Constitutional right of every American.

Signifying dog.

Tonight, for a variety of reasons, we couldn't take Bruiser for his evening constitutional. One of those reasons was not the fact that I am watching Lost like it's my job. I'm still in the first season, and I am currently experiencing thoughts that most of America had six years ago, such as, "Matthew Fox . . . dreamy."

HOWEVER. I had just finished with one episode and was about to start the next one, when the historian spoke from the other room. I paused, said, "What?" and he said, "I thought you were done with that episode," and I said, "I was, but I was starting a new one--but do you need to talk?" and at that word--the word that rhymes with "w-a-l-k" (I spelled it, although the B can also spell)--my intelligent canine roused himself from his torpor, and said, effectively, "I know that word: rhymes with walk."

Other signs and portents the B can interpret:

• the putting on of sneakers
• when I say, "so shall we do this?"
• or when I say, "so, what do you think?"
• or when I say, "Okay!"

All these things mean "walk." Walk WALK walk walk walk. The only word that's as important as walk in the Bruiser lexicon is "food," but he prefers that, rather than using the alphabet, we spell this word with actual cheese.

And now, resuming my Lost viewing.

Project 2.

Since I have a more or less complete draft of my manuscript, I am moving on to project two of my sabbatical (and high time, I'd say, but who has time for self-recrimination? when it's May, and so on and so forth, whoo! August will be here before you know it--but I digress--): the making of short films.

Some of you may have noticed the new feature to your right, Daily Vid. I posted the first one yesterday. These are and will probably always be modest little things, but in the spirit of diving in . . . there's yesterday's over there and here's another:

Miriam. In motion. from lisab on Vimeo.

Update: still waiting for news about my son (my daughter reminds me that no news is no doubt good news). For updates on Craig Arnold, anyone who wants to can go here (I know a lot of you already know, but for those of you that don't).

Big boy(s).

Last night, makeup artist daughter and her husband and darling boy came over for dinner, as well as singing son, whose wife was off visiting a friend for the evening. The night before, my daughter called and said, "Singing son and I want to come over for dinner." Which, when you come to think of it, is as good a way to get a dinner going as any.

Well, we had a great time, not the least of which was my grandson, who toddled around the living room, playing with a ball, the blocks, a little of this and that . . .

Because he was so busy, most of these pictures are a little blurry--call it "Boy in Motion":