Last Sunday while out walking, I came across what had formerly been a somewhat shabby two-storey office building, but is now a nicely renovated space for art galleries and artist's studios, with an upscale diner on the ground floor. I looked forward all week to going there for breakfast this morning, and it didn't disappoint. The coffee was a little stronger than what I'm used to, but I enjoyed my eggs and whiskey buffalo sausage. It's an attractive space, with marble tabletops and fancy light fixtures.
I went to the library in the afternoon to renew my card. I have mixed feelings about the library. A few years ago I decided it would be easier to just buy whatever book I was interested in reading. For the most part I do that, but there are times when a card comes in useful, and at least I am supporting the library by renewing.
I'm re-reading Jack Vance's Durdane trilogy. It is better than I remembered, though it has been twenty years or more since I last read it. Vance, one of my favorite SF authors, weaves his own interests into his books, and one of his interests is music:
He took up the darabence to play a somewhat trivial set of melodies, as might be heard in the Morningshore dance halls. Just as Etzwane began to lose interest, Dystar altered the set of his blare valve to construct a sudden new environment: the same melodies, the same rhythm, but now they told a disturbed tale of callous departures and mocking laughter, of roof demons and storm birds. Dystar muted the whines, throttled the valves, and slowed his tempo. The music asserted the fragility of everything pleasant and bright, the triumph of darkness, and ended in a dismal twanging chord... A pause, then a sudden coda remarking that, on the other hand, matters might easily be quite the reverse.Vance's tastes run more to dixieland jazz than to the jam bands that I enjoy, but the improvisational spirit is much the same.