February 14, 2014

Never thought about St. Valentine’s Day, except for one, to whom I sent greetings.

From the street what can be seen in my old house is the cold blue glare of aquarium lights, where five small fish hang on in whatever state of depression fish are capable of. The last big blue one passed last night. His body was lovely on the snow. Steve was meant to come and rescue the survivors, but the snow deflected him. The snow has given me plenty of time to move into my new life. It is not done, but it is liveable, and done so that if my old house blew up tonight I would miss nothing but the art. That I would miss indeed, my three Jack Yeatses, some of my own whose mystery I’m still plumbing. I happened to be standing in 62 when the cable guy called to see if he could come early, a window of maybe five lucky minutes that made the whole day easier. I thank the Powers for that. I watched him. I possess not one of the skills that aid him in his job. Climbing the ladder alone would eliminate me.

Writing for the first time in my study on the second floor, the clutter of which already bespeaks customary life.