Martes

Fiorella hardly slept for two days, then fell asleep on the couch yesterday and woke up feeling wonderfully refreshed. Couldn't help but think of Handel, who decried the lack of sleep in a beautiful song she used to sing.
     Fiorella, do you still sing?.
     No, thanks to essential tremor of the vocal cords, uvula, and larynx, sometimes I can barely talk, but I have lovely memories. God is good.
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 Fio has not only brought all her art stuff down the stairs, but now has tucked it all away in a moving box that she laid flat. The hardest part of the jop was flipping the box so she could tape the bottom closed with her beloved masking tape.
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Mourning the murder of the son and attempted murder of the husband of the judge who is (was?) going to be presiding over a trial that would involve Trump's favorite German bank. This kind of stuff didn't happen when Obama was president.
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Not happy about what went on in Oregon and that Trump has said will happen elsewhere. Nothing like turning the country against itself. 
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Looks like Fio's high school reunion scheduled for October is down the tubes. The last Fio heard, only sixteen people had signed up for it. Your faithful correspondent wasn't one of them.