The day is lovely. The few clouds don’t obscure the sun. It is 80°. A breeze is constant and cooling. Lately the nights have gone down to the 60’s, wonderful for sleeping. These lower temperatures are previews of fall and warnings that summer is closing. Fall is nudging.

My friends and I often went to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show. We yelled lines and brought props. It is still a favorite film of mine. I love the view of the heels on the elevator as it descends, and that first look at Frank-N-Furter’s face. I even have an old vinyl soundtrack album, and I saw the play in Boston. Tim Curry was the most amazing Frank.

When I was a kid, I loved movies, especially science fiction movies, the old black and whites from the 50’s. They had a plot formula. Most aliens wanted Earth. Creatures destroyed cities and ate people whole. Pandemics killed people or turned them into zombies. Ordinary creatures like spiders or ants became enormous. They too ate people. They kept their creature characteristics which made them scarier. Spiders wove huge webs big enough to catch people. Ants dug holes for their queens. There were pirañhas and alligators and sharks. The water creatures had enormous teeth. They too ate people. I was not a kid easily scared by all these creatures. I really enjoyed these movies, still do. I search for them and hope to find one I haven’t seen or saw so long ago I don’t remember. When I do, I pop the corn and while away the evening watching.

I have always been an egg fan. My mother used to make us eggs in egg cups on winter mornings. She’d cut the toast to fit the top of the egg. I didn’t know the formal name for these eggs was soft-boiled eggs. She’d also make dropped eggs on toast. I was older before I learned they were actually poached eggs. She used to make them in boiling water. She always made sure the yolks were still soft. She’d sometimes make egg salad for Friday’s school lunch. I only liked the salad if it had celery and lettuce. Egg salad needed crunch. My mother’s peppers and eggs were the things of legend. My friend used to make the best deviled eggs. My fridge always has eggs.

I have a concert today. I had one yesterday. Today it is the Beatles.Yesterday it was the Beach Boys.

The sun is bright, the sky blue and the small breeze refreshing. I woke up from my hibernation just before noon. I had gone to bed when morning light was making its appearance. Nala woke me up. She was at the bottom of the bed crying. I figured she wanted out so I dragged myself out of bed and opened the door. She ran outside. Speaking of Nala, I did guess that the mouse motel trap which had gone missing from the kitchen had been stolen by Nala. I ventured another guess and figured a mouse was inside when Nala saw it so she took the whole trap to the yard. She knows to hide her swag. I was going to look for the trap, but it rained for a few days and then I forgot. Last night it reappeared in the hall. It was dirty inside and out. One end was partially opened and the plastic on the bottom of that end door had been chewed. I think it was the mouse trying for freedom, but I’ll never know its fate.

This is one of those where is my muse days. I’m watching a video of a street market walk in Accra. These are local markets, and every day is market day. It is loud, a babel of voices. Most are speaking Twi or Fante. Tables line the sidewalks. Aunties are selling their merchandise. If you want yams, rice, tomatoes, fruit, onions, ginger, carrots, cloth, pots and pans, clothes, baskets, buckets, palm oil, kenkey, canned mackerel, spaghetti, peppers and so much more you can shop at any table after table selling the exact same goods. Mostly women walk in the small spaces between the tables while carrying goods or buckets on their heads. Cars are carefully driven in the streets made narrow by the tables on each side of the road. In another market the tables are three deep along the sides of the railroad tracks. Goats are sleeping between the tracks. The train doesn’t run there any more. People are rummaging through piles of used clothes. When I lived in Ghana, they called the clothes obroni wawu, translated as dead white man’s clothes.

I have a busy uke week. I also need to do a dump run, vacuum the upstairs, wash floors and polish furniture so dusty I could sell advertising space on it. I think I just saw my sloth walk down the driveway with a suitcase in her paw.