Sleeping fitfully, waking with thumping head and clammy under too many bedclothes to midwinter blue-white light, low flames of sunshine. Waking to meditate with cold air whispering on my skin and in my lungs, planes echoing above, slammed car doors and hurried voices, and a high, tinny birdsong. Gulping hot, milky, spicy tea, shuffling into yesterday’s clothes and walking fast around the park to get some blood, some thoughts, some energy flowing. Close the doors and turn up the heating and plunge for the day into other countries of, strangely enough, intenser cold, where Nordic computer workers comment in quiet, crooked-English aphorisms on their 'psychological contract' with their very modern employer (it’s a magnum scholarly opus that I’m copyediting) and nomadic Siberian reindeer herders gather in their tents after the longest of all working days when the sun never sets and the ice never melts and make a psychological contract with fate, tossing libations of vodka onto the fire (this gorgeous book I’m reading, of which more later). Typing and reading, typing and reading, as the flames of sunshine lengthen and the blue-white light dims, and night and quiet and cold and words, words, words, until my eyes droop, too tired for more, but my mind flits on in dreams through high-strung cities of high-tech offices and out into the empty lands of ice.
¶ 12:32 pm
Oh, how beautiful! Thank you. What a marvellous window.
This is positively euphoric, Jean... cold, reindeer, ice, manuscript, book, libations of vodka... reads like a flow of breath, focused, busy, but deep and intense, 'cold air whistpering on my skin and in my lungs,' plumes of mist, warmth in the cold air, your glowing words.