(no subject)
I walked home in the snow. My vision framed by the fuzzy knit of my scarf below and my hat above. It wasn't too cold but the thin snow found it's way into my shoes, pockets, up my pant legs, through the zippers. I was not wearing boots. I returned my boots when they became uncomfortable and weather grew warmer. I wish I had had them today. Stepping into foot deep drifts in flimsy shoes made my feet ache. I got home to an empty apartment. Greg was shoveling the walk. I went down to help. By the time we had finished, there was already a thick blanket of snow on the driveway again. Our coats hang in the bathroom. I am warming up my thighs in fuzzy sweatpants.
I want to make fondue in our new fondue pot (thanks david!). That requires cheese and a hike to the store. Maybe. Once I convince my ankles that they are warm again, maybe. If only I still had boots.
We were going to go down to CT tonight and stay over... wedding details. However it is much too snowy, blustery, weather-y, to do any of that. We've tentatively rescheduled to go down tomorrow evening. We'll see. We have to clean the apartment, do laundry, vaccuum under the bed, go grocery shopping.
I've started a book of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates called Where is here? and I'm not sure I really like it. Does this make me a bad person? She's supposed to be very good, my writer friends have said so, but it feels to sharp and pointy to me. The stories and short, one, two, three pages. They are little stabs at light and dark. I don't know how I feel about this. I think at one point I wanted to write stories like that. I think it takes people having confidence in you, it takes knowing you can get published, to write like that. Or maybe the time has passed for that kind of story so now it seems like a relic. I don't know. Think think. Pointy little stories.
I want to make fondue in our new fondue pot (thanks david!). That requires cheese and a hike to the store. Maybe. Once I convince my ankles that they are warm again, maybe. If only I still had boots.
We were going to go down to CT tonight and stay over... wedding details. However it is much too snowy, blustery, weather-y, to do any of that. We've tentatively rescheduled to go down tomorrow evening. We'll see. We have to clean the apartment, do laundry, vaccuum under the bed, go grocery shopping.
I've started a book of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates called Where is here? and I'm not sure I really like it. Does this make me a bad person? She's supposed to be very good, my writer friends have said so, but it feels to sharp and pointy to me. The stories and short, one, two, three pages. They are little stabs at light and dark. I don't know how I feel about this. I think at one point I wanted to write stories like that. I think it takes people having confidence in you, it takes knowing you can get published, to write like that. Or maybe the time has passed for that kind of story so now it seems like a relic. I don't know. Think think. Pointy little stories.