Snow coats everything with a crumbly frosting. The drab winter-brown landscape looks magical again. But even the snow can’t right the construction site across the street because the construction site used to be home, and now it is Over Tilled Earth and Metal and Concrete and Four Ten Story Cranes and Loud Dusty Men in Hardhats.
The bitter cold pushes through the cracks in even the most well-insulated wagons. And in the wagons we never really insulated properly it is never really warm. From my seat in the kitchen I nod at every penniless writer of the last two centuries who has typed in fingerless gloves, hands cupped together and filled again and again with humid breath.
Breakfast is bread toasted on the wood stove and dipped in faux “bolognese” sauce from the promised land of dumpsters north of Cologne. (A tofu factory that regularly fills the coffers and mouths of the persistent.) Everything in the kitchen is frozen.
Last night someone told me that Christmas is this Thursday, and I didn’t believe them. “Christmas is still weeks away!” The calendar is against me. But the calendar is against us all.