Pretty, snowy morning. A glimpse from my bedroom window, which happens to be as thin as a few sheets of paper. I feel rushes of icy air whenever I get in bed. The rest of my body is cocooned under my blankets, but my head tends to freeze. It's an interesting sensation, to say the least.
The tremendous snowfall (for this state, at least) has created a lovely social effect on our house. Because no one can go anywhere, we've all been hibernating together. Sarah made us fabulous Indian food last night and all seven of us talked until 11, laughing, telling stories, spilling Meller's M&Ms all over the floor... it's been so peaceful. I almost wish the snow wouldn't melt so we could stay like this until the semester ends. I don't think we've had this kind of camaraderie before and I am reluctant to see it go.
I've never been this productive in my life. On average, I'm writing five to seven pages a day. It doesn't sound like a lot, but for me, that's a considerable rate of creation. Not all of it is even very good, but at least I'm getting it out there. Meeting with my adviser on Friday was more encouraging than I expected it to be. All of the work I've put into this thesis may not actually turn out to be worth it, but I'm not going to surrender now.
Song of the day: "Magpie to the Morning," Neko Case. It sounds like all the rest of her stuff--but it never gets old. So beautiful.
Dates to keep: Today is Win's 21st birthday, and Tuesday is Courtney's 22nd birthday and mine and Guion's two-year anniversary.
I think the moments of truest love happen like this:
"They had met first in Scotland, fishing--she from one rock, he from another. Her line got tangled; she had given over, and had watched him with the stream rushing between his legs, casting, casting--until, like a thick ingot of silver bent in the middle, the salmon had leapt, had been caught, and she had loved him." Between the Acts