And this morning we're down to four degrees. I am grateful for this thick bathrobe and this hot cup of coffee; and the cat, who foolishly bounced outside into the rime, is grateful that I have opposable thumbs and could immediately reopen the door for him.
Yesterday was exceedingly lazy. We played board games; we took naps. I suppose I should hop-to-it more effectively today, but I could be talked out of that. It remains to be seen if skating will happen.
Tomorrow night we're supposed to get snow--only the second accumulating storm of the season. This has been an odd winter: too dry, really, which doesn't bode well for planting. The garden could use a snowpack.
I dreamed last night that I lived on a steep mountain, so steep that the road beside my house was almost perpendicular, and the surface was wet and rutted, like gravel roads are in early spring. A stranger--maybe innocent, maybe someone more threatening--was trying to get a ride up the mountain, and I kept telling him that my car couldn't go any further than my house, that the road was too bad. But he kept smiling and pressing, smiling and pressing, and I was nervous and unwilling.
That was the entire narrative of this dream, and I woke up from it marveling how my brain is able to synthesize so much into these odd nighttime sojourns I take. The sense of knowing that a particular action will be a mistake. Of being pushed into that action unwillingly. Of an inability to discern between friendliness and threat. I'm not especially interested in dreams as code: the Freudian notion that they stand for something else, and that this something else is mostly sexual. What intrigues me is the narrative of character, intent, morality, distilled into these tragicomic, post-logical skits.