I feel kind of shy, posting my innermost thoughts out here in cyberspace. But I also feel strangely compelled to do it, like some hidden voyeuristic tendency is suddenly screaming to be satisfied. Hmm. I wonder how secure these thingys are, and whether the fact that I've marked it private is truly like a lock and key? I guess there's only one way to find out.
I'm so used to scribbling everything out on paper. I like the smell of ink, the crackle of paper, the faint blue lines of my cahier; but I lose so much when I write in my notebooks. So many images, ideas get scrambled up and disappear due to my state of utter disorganization, due to the sheer volume of stuff I scribble. So this way I know where everything is, and apparently I can categorize the damned things too. Now that, faithful reader, is cool.
I'm guessing we'll have snow here in a few days, which doesn't make me unhappy. It's time. The trees are barely decent, swaying around trying to cover themselves. The grass is crisp with light frost in the mornings. I can see my breath at night when I take Neko to her house. (incidentally, I love how D has trained her to run to her doghouse when he says, in a deep, stentorian tone, "Neko - HOUSE!")
This will be the second winter I've spent here, and the first I've spent in the Kink as an actual resident. Of course, I'll be spending it at Carm's place in Blair's Grove, since our own dear house won't be ready to move in to for another, oh, two bloody months. I never thought I'd be a victim of renovation hell, but here I am, getting poked by the pitchforks of contractor whims and burned by husbandly desires for lighting and insulation.
The water changes colour here every day. I am blessed to be so close to it, after all these years of longing to live near its purr and roar. Last winter it was as though I was on a whole other planet - I'd never seen the beach and lake frozen into craters and patterns before. Before I met D, I only knew the world up here as a place that was perpetually summer: bonfires, sand between my toes, the hushed splash of waves, green grasses and greener meadows, humid nights, melted popsicle sunsets. A place that only knew summer. Never a place of frost or sleet or closed highways and snowbanks the height of my shoulders, of clouded 7am breath in the barns, or deer standing motionless in the field by the 4th concession, honey coloured against the stark whiteness.
I can't wait to wake up on Christmas morning in D's arms on Someday farm.