Comfort Zone

Difficult to nail down. What it takes to be comfortable. If my feet aren't freezing and I can roll a cigaret, I'm in pretty good shape. I like the dark and quiet, so I chase that state through the seasons. Little things matter to me now. Adequate insulation. Isolation and uninterrupted periods of time. Remembering the Essex, I keep an interesting larder. Always, there should be within reach, 50 books. Time is an interval, a movable feast, so I don't pay it much mind. I do love the smell of bacon. Within arm's reach I keep a candle, a headlamp, extra batteries: draped over the back of the sofa I keep my bathrobe, and an extra, in case of a guest. I'm considering a wheeled chair, to access the dictionaries. It's nice to have a pot of beans and rice on the stove. I like to burn a piece of sassafras or juniper, with the stove door slightly open. Sometimes, in winter, when I've cranked the stove to bake cornbread, I love to open a window and breathe cold air. It's a matter of immersion. When I'm reading something that engages my attention, or writing, I'm not aware of outside influences, I sometimes let the fire go out or forget to eat. Something always takes my attention, the way water beads, or the way that wasps build a nest. I've been known to squat on the driveway and watch water go downhill. It gathers, then finds a way.