Pollux and Castor and Regulus and Procyon

Holy hell, triple digits in the best possible scenario! Thank you followers sincerely for the support, humor, and poetic asides. The self-indulgence of blogging and eating disorders makes your tolerance for my defenses that much more endearing.

J and I went to the Los Caprichos exhibit today,  Francisco Goya's 1799 collection confronting "human hypocrisy, pretense, fear, and irrationality, picturing them in every conceivable form ... monsters, specters, corpses, and other bitter or callous beings enact[ing] challenges to authority of all kinds, including that of the church and state." His etchings highlighted "the innumerable foibles and follies to be found in any civilized society, and from the common prejudices and deceitful practices which custom, ignorance, or self-interest have made usual." Apt sentiment to borrow for American misconduct, what I touched on in posts prior and always crowds my mind between numbers. Its commentary was brief, translations of titles and the occasional guess to meaning or historical note. We learned prostitutes were called owls under old Spanish slang - anyone know why? Are the words similar? Is it a play on the owl's symbolism, nocturnal streetwalking and heart-of-gold whore wisdom? The art itself was small but convincing. We went too late to eat in the museum café before closing and instead walked around outside, frigid air circling ankles like nipping dogs. Snow's beauty lasts the duration of the false quiet when it falls. Not enough accumulates to look better than lint gray slush collected at the edges of parking lots. J tells me I'm always complaining. Probably. I'm optimistic about our six mile winter hike next weekend, though. And thick striped socks.