It's another evening in the cockpit, not as cold this time, because I remembered to grab the afghan before I came outside. The terrible afghan that I love so much: its colors are indistinguishable now, in the dark, and noticing that has made me think about the inconstant nature of color--the fact that we see light reflected off an object, and that light changes as the hours pass and the seasons change, so that there is no absolute color, just our perception of it.

The light was so strong these last few days, unusually strong for this area, and I was out in the sun, which is equally unusual, as my skin is the color of parchment and I burn in ten minutes. Not parchment, that's inaccurate. Ivory. That sounds too romantic, and hence false. I don't know what color it is, but the combination of my pale skin and dark hair cause people frequently to label me a Goth, which is also inaccurate.

I was out in the sun, working on the mural I started last weekend. I think I'm about half-finished, but then I could theoretically work on it for the next solid year, adding shadows or changing the shade of the vast sky that takes up fifty percent of the surface. Who said this: No painting is ever finished, but they all stop at some point. Answer: I don't know. But someone said something like that, and I agree with it.

The light was so strong and unrelenting that I couldn't see half the details I'd painted the day before, when I arrived. The surface of the painting was in high relief--it's a stucco surface--but the colors were washed out. I had to stand close and strain my eyes to make out the color variations, and found that any paint I mixed looked bright and unnatural. It was impossible to paint until the sun leaned a little further into the west, giving me some shade to work in. As the day went on, the colors intensified, and by late in the afternoon, the whole thing glowed.

Tomorrow is Miss Angela's birthday, and so my friend Giuliana organized what she called a barbecue, which was more like a luxurious dinner al fresco in Tuscany. She served grilled salmon and Alaskan halibut. The table was set with rectangular turquoise Chinese dishes and a long grape vine wound its way across the table, the salt cellar and pepper mill nestled into the leaves and bunches of red grapes. We took turns toasting to Miss Angela's health, and Giuliana brought out a book of toasts for all occasions, which we passed around and read. I chose one attributed to Artemus Ward, whose house--former house--I had passed on the bus every day in grade school. "Drink with impunity," it read, "...and also with anyone else who asks." He was one swingin' Colonial, that Artemus.

After cake had been served, Lucy invited everyone over to see the mural. "This is the perfect time of day to see it!" she said, and it seemed true, for when we got there, it was luminous. The top half of the structure is still unpainted, and there's an area where I moodily painted out the trunk of a palm I felt was unsuccessful, but still, there was enough to see, and at 7:00 on a summer evening, the light was gentle and soft, and all the colors shone.

The Keelhauler wasn't with us at Miss Angela's party; he has to work this weekend. He's anchored in the harbor, watching all the boats sail by, and he's called me twenty times or so. "Is it like being on Alcatraz?" I asked him, and he agreed that it was.

Tonight, he texted me a message that read "New Orleans is sinking." It's a line from a song by, if I remember correctly, the Tragically Hip. And also, it's true. Or it will be, soon. Maybe "sinking" isn't the right word--it's not actually moving, it's just going to be inundated, barring some act of God that dissipates the hurricane headed that way.

It's a strange time we live in, where we can see the hurricane coming and talk about the possible effects, but remain powerless to change its path. From here, the hurricane is a giant red swirl on a weather map on a TV screen, and I'm wondering what it looks like from the ground, at 9:55 p.m. on this Sunday night.

Star of the day. . .Junebug Johnson