This week has been me writing papers and drinking more tea than is probably good for me. My heating bill was high but I also got paid to feed the landlady's cat and shovel her driveway so I'm not stressed too much. My book club is looking at delving into the world non-western writers. In pursuing these options, the sheer volume of tantalizing tomes, the sheer volume of tomes untranslated into our native tongue, are overwhelming. So much that I'll never get to read.
I throw some more coffee mugs on the wheel, stop up at the record store, go home and read for class, it feels good to be alone and introverted after so much interaction. The snow makes me not want to go outside, and maintain this hermiting with the record player and a now-almost-clean apartment, and try not to think about all the things that stress, the things that make me feel dishonest with myself and others, wondering what is the most true and real response. The sun's come out and maybe I should shovel the driveway, maybe walk down to the water, maybe do something or other, to embrace the solitude that's been these decades and kill the longings.