By Jimi Hendrix
After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday's life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
'Cause the life they lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember
The names it has blown in the past?
And with its crutch, its old age, and its wisdom
It whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary
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I feel like this week is trying to make up for all the bad weather we had earlier in the winter, particularly when I talk to friends further east where it's bitterly cold. Again we had brilliant sunshine, which I got to see during an unexpectedly long walk because our internet went down while I was midway through watching an episode of Loki with Kristen (we'll finish it Friday). Kay was the only one of my high school friends who made it to chat this morning, and I always love talking to her.
Paul made ham and cheese pie for dinner, after which we started watching Midsomer Murders because we've only seen a couple of episodes here and there. Our internet went out again for a while, but we managed to finish the first two episodes (enjoyable though a bit dated). Here are some photos I took at the grave of Jimi Hendrix at Greenwood Cemetery in Renton; he grew up in Seattle and his family is buried around the memorial dome while he rests under the guitar:
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