Give or take a day - the Cumberland crested at Nashville yesterday evening, but my house was far enough back not to be in danger of getting hit. That said, it was an exceedingly close call for Metro's only functional water treatment plant. It being the lone plant, we're still in mega-mandatory conservation mode here. The Twitterati have been circulating CoolPeopleCare's specific tips on cutting usage, and the latest figures I've glimpsed report reserves at 38%, production at 80% (to echo the poster, "stop hoarding water, folks!" The stores surely aren't out of sweet tea and talcum powder...)

I was telling a friend that yesterday was a disconcerting blend of everyday and crisis, and that things will likely be that way for the foreseeable future: on the one hand, my house reeks of rot, I reek of not having bathed since Saturday, and at least three households at my church have lost pretty much everything. On the other hand, the sushi and seafood bar down the street was hopping (and serving everything in plasticware so as to not have to wash dishes), and the Red Sox were winning. I was amused at the folks openly rejoicing at the waters' knocking over of the Ghost Ballet sculpture, even though I personally like the thing (and so did my houseguests from Cleveland -- when they stayed with me last month, they were delighted at the sight of the miniature version in my 'hood, so I took them to admire the real one the following weekend. So all you hipsters can just hush).

What else? Heard from an aunt and a number of friends (including one darling who offered both shower and washer), and my church has changed the theme of this Sunday's service from Mother's Day to "The Powers of Love and Nature." I believe this Saturday's Herb Fair (open to the public) will be proceeding as planned, which means I have six loaves of apricot bread to bake later this week. There are the usual reports and stacks of projects awaiting, as well as a calligraphy commission. And so on, and onwards.

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Writing-wise: well, my concentration's been better. But I'm making progress on the current piece, and I had to laugh at myself for typing "fleeing impressions" when I meant "fleeting impressions." Yeah, I've met impressions that scared me into a dead run. But they don't belong in the story in question. *erases the phrase, not entirely without regret*

I also received a close-but-not-quite rejection this morning, and found out I failed to place in a contest -- but, several acquaintances were finalists, so yay for that!

Crash blossom sighting: "Obama Tries to Mend Fences with a Lunch." (I can certainly think of several meals that tasted like glue and picket boards, but... ;-) )