Goodness. It’s cold outside. A nice reminder that February is still winter and even in Texas that means a chill air. Of course, as the temperature dropped yesterday, and I went to the store in a hoodie and a jacket, I still saw men and boys in shorts. And I’m still not sure how that’s comfortable and why men do it. It used to be that only boys wore short pants and men wore long. Now, short pants are ubiquitous, a symbol of freedom, I suppose. But in cold weather it’s a sartorial choice that makes me wonder.

This might turn out to be a pretty good day. I just solved the NY Times mini crossword in 50 seconds. Probably a record for me. If I hadn’t mixed up Monet and Manet it would have been under 50 seconds. Of course, I’m betting there are multitudes who routinely best the puzzle in a lot less than that. Still, it gives me a little buzz.

I’m still in my book with my quantum theories and now I'm in the multiverse phase which implies, almost in comic book fashion, that nothing happens until it's observed and all possible outcomes in all possible combinations exist in their own universes and there’s more to it than that from a physics standpoint because there’s something about a wave not collapsing that I don’t totally get.

As I’m reading my book, Six Impossible Things, by John Gribbin, a tidy little book dealing with subatomic particles and their mysterious duality as particles and waves, I am struck by something. Every physicist mentioned has performed a thought experiment, oftentimes because technology has not advanced to a stage that would let them perform a live experiment, but usually just to prove a point about the mysterious quantum world.

I just read a book, Six Impossible Things, by John Gribbin. It’s a tiny book which is fitting because it deals with the mystery of tiny things, subatomic particles. They can be in two places at once, and act as either a wave or a particle, and there are formulas to prove both. No one to date has successfully explained why the particles behave as they behave, although several have tried and that's the subject of the book.

Here we go. A new day. No turmoil to report. No angst. Only the realization that turning over your life to algorithms is probably a bad idea, unless you know how to make the algorithm work in your favor. I’ve figured it out on most platforms, and some I’ve left entirely. But I still find myself responding mindlessly to the screen, making someone money I’m sure.

Interesting. I started down a writing path this morning, got one paragraph in and decided it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about, probably because it’s likely I’ve talked about it before although it’s difficult to imagine a personal topic I haven’t touched on in the ten years I’ve been writing this blog. Still, I stopped and started over. This is the result. It feels marginally better.

Spent a few chill hours on the golf course yesterday. We got around in under four hours, which is how the game of golf is meant to be played. My score was high because my putting and chipping was it’s usual unglamorous self.

The mornings of cold and brisk are at hand. It feels good when I step outside to feed the cats. And it’s really nice when I need to do some work during the day. And there is still work to do, particularly on the little shed.

The Thanksgiving feast is over. I spent the day with friends and their families. It was fun and good company. Now I am home. The house is quiet. There are no decorations for Christmas this year.

I seem to be hell bent on examining the limits of my body’s performance capabilities. Yesterday I discovered when tightening a pipe clamp that I could exert too much force on my thumb and that the joint was weak point.

Lost track of my joy yesterday. Don’t know where I put it. It disappeared somewhere around mid-morning.

The tin roof is on, four sheets. There is nary a shimmy to be found. The little shed feels sturdy. Now it’s on to the finishing work.

It feels odd to be writing about small things when there’s a big thing happening right down the road, but this big thing isn’t a personal tale like my other big things. Those were peculiar to me but relatable, an illness in the family, a death, things we all suffer.