Several Layers

I slept in a couple of layers last night in the mummy bag. The house was 42 degrees this morning, inside. Another day in paradise. Pull on my robe and slipper socks, pull Linda's hat down over my ears and start a fire. Go back, wrap up in a blanket and listen to NPR, read for a couple of hours. B had passed on the second (in a series, I'm sure) of detective novels by J.K. Rowling. I'd never read her at all, but this is a pretty good book. A great way to get through a frozen morning. That, and thinking about how often I go back, when I'm writing, and change a preposition to a comma. Or add a preposition AND a comma. Wind is sweeping the ridge. My one foray out, I split a couple of rounds, brought some wood inside. It's harsh out, but partly sunny, which is welcome relief. I fear Mac is buried in snow, south of Buffalo, and we just have a dusting here; I'd feel guilty, but he'll be spending the winter in Key West and other points south, and I'll be buried in a snow-drift. The weather isn't such a hurdle if you don't have to fight it. If you don't open the door, you don't let any cold air in. Fuck protocol, I walk around draped in a blanket. Those army wool blankets are the best, but they're getting harder to find.