Frost. Pretty hard, although I haven't bothered to check the lettuce in the garden to find out just how bad. I do know traversing the back porch that will remain in shade for the next six months is a bit tricky. At least the sun is shining, and we should be seeing mid-fifties for a thorough melt.
I believe I can now say that I am out of my mid-fifties, although were we to round to the closest point, the mid- or the next zero, I have another (yes) six months before the technical hump.
I didn't plan the symmetry. Ask my wife and she will confirm it is not my strong point.
I make lists in a notebook and on post-its that eventually make it either to the notebook, or when completed or temporally prioritized into irrelevance, find their way to the trash can. Yet, the notebook carries no guarantee beyond accumulation; and as each notation does not necessarily indicate a simple matter, the book fills with delayed gratifications as simple as a 'thank-you'.
Most likely the avoidance is more complex, more content to gather than organize, the need to sort always more of a growing necessity than insatiable desire. For instance, I could convince myself that my cluttered studio is installation art.
I could, and the dust bunnies an audience, thusly propelled forward, the oblivion camouflaged like wanting to draw when only doodles are forthcoming. So inspired by gentle chastisement, I will start with vacuuming.
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