As the blizzard anticipated for days finally hit tonight, me safely ensconced a good hour or two before the snow began, I did the dishes and made some dinner, then had a kind of freezing come over me, though the power's still on and the heat's still working. A freezing like a nervous holding still. Hunch is it's got to do with the scary mystery of nature, and the boxing in, alone.
I have projects to work on but so far haven't. Managed some CityVille and some Weather Channel and such. Can't even seem to settle into a feature film. It's all on a kinda steady low level, but like a wide rippling ribbon of stress, whatever the hell one might mean by that.
After I got my good-measure gasoline on the way home, I nearly made an unnecessary grocery trip, with tortillas and chocolate chips in mind, though I didn't even particularly want those things, or to cook with them, vs. with the passel of other foodstuffs already procured. I have surety of grub, to borrow my great grandmother's words. The impulse is an impulse of wanting to prepare, and knowing one never is prepared, there's no preparing. There's only a choice of how much to go that way. Disaster preparédness: hooey; phooey.
mary's violet eyes
make john sit up
nights. i wonder
where gravity comes from