Winter snowshoe sceneSorry for the depression, guys. This afternoon I'm again thinking about grand plans for the spring--digging up the pond and using the moss in my flower garden, where I will plant bulbs and flowering shrubs, and turning the gravel pit at the back of the land into a swimming hole. That's a spring fed beaver pond out my office window, y'all.
Or maybe I'll build a sauna, out of all the cedar, and then I'll heat it up to 200 degrees--as hot as I can take without cooking my innards--and heat myself so I can go out and roll around naked in the ice, even in the heart of January Jones.
It's February, but I still think of it like that, thanks to an unforgettable Conan sketch on late-night television. Go YouTube it, oh ye in the land of internet. [We get Conan for free on Canadian television--Canada, where you get basic cable analog!] Now I have anthropomorphized the entity of winter into a hard-partying, chain-wearing African-American gentleman who does guest spots on Mad Men. When I feel glum, I ascribe it to him.
I spent the morning punching away at the keys of my grandmother's typewriter, a Hermes Rocket. K. repaired the ribbon, the ribbon that lived on Secret with us for two years, and now I have an operational typewriter that allows my brain to function in a different way than with computer keys. Slower somehow. More careful, but also more muscular. If anyone knows where I can get one of those big rolls of paper like Jack Kerouac used, send me the link.
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