February 13, 2014

Perfect universal whiteness, though in truth I must say the upper three quarters of the world is as dark as it can be only over a blanket of snow. It was a gentle snow, and there is, so far as I can tell in my corner, only beauty.  And inconvenience, but one blushes to think of that.

Second night at 51, this time in the guest bedroom, which is essentially a wall of glass, with the snow falling and drifting all around. The sleep was deep but not dreamless, and the dream I remember (or rather, do not quite remember) was both important and unsatisfactory.

This house is more sprawling and more be-windowed than 62, and there is greater variety in the temperatures from room to room. The back rooms are quite cozy, especially the closet the cats have taken for themselves. The front can be quite brisk. The house was built for people considerably taller than I, and I can’t reach the closet shelves or the highest kitchen shelves without a stool.

Stewart removed the master bedroom closet door and took it with him. What an odd thing.

Thought I should be writing in the snow last night. All that came were lines about the quiet fall of snow in the night.

Mint tea. Someone came from the street and walked–not on the driveway but on the grass-- to my fence. Snow telleth all.


Hiked through the snow, to get DJ his mail, to reset the router that came discombobulated in the storm, to gather a few things in my arms to bring them to my new home.

Evening: assembled the desk I ordered without knowing it would come as a kit.  Only one minor tantrum. The glue they sent was dried up, so I had to slit open the tube and dig moist glue out with a nail head. The instructions were in French. Long day, ordering, and ordering. The blizzard has given me extra time to complete the move, though I don’t see any sign that it ever shall be completed. Everything is too hard. Pointless complication. The storm smashes far harder, it is told, to the south and east.

Almost too tired to depress the keys.