May 9, 2017 (Tuesday)

by Yule Heibel on May 8, 2018

Oh brrr. Well, that was a mistake. I couldn’t bear to leave the heat on this late in May, and consequently I’m sitting in a room that has a temperature of 58ºF. It’s cold. There is hoar frost on the roof below me.

Yesterday I decided to work on some reading / book notes (Sexual Personae) versus working on my novel. I wasn’t getting anywhere with my own project, hence a switch-up might be a good idea I thought. Well, not really. I barely got anything done.

A nice surprise in the morning: B. called from Florence. It was great to catch up with her and to fantasize about maybe meeting later in the summer in Victoria, then traveling to Hornby Island where she and K. have rented a cottage. But I probably won’t do it, knowing me.

I just saw crows flying past my window again. Unlike yesterday’s gang (or murder), these were just two, a duo, one first, then the other, parting the air with their dense black wings like oars forking through heavy water. Effortlessly. Slowly, methodically, using great strength – but practiced, sure, and unstoppable. Like rowers, sculling. Then a male cardinal flew from a tree; he was followed moments later by the female. One wonders if their eggs are intact. One wonders if they managed to lay any eggs at all, given how cold it is.

The hoar frost has disappeared off the roof. The sun is trying to push its light through some cloud cover in the east, but its rays aren’t as muscular as the Olympic rower crows. Clouds, crows, a thickening of the air with cold is winning today. A. called in the afternoon yesterday. It’s cold in Berlin, too.

Really not sure about Hornby Island. On the one hand, I’d love to go. Never been to Hornby, despite its mythical status in my adolescence, when it was the annual vacation spot for the P. clan and all their friends. I never made it up, always working summer jobs. Not sure what I’d find there if I actually visited. Rocks. Trees. Ocean. No. I don’t think I’ll go. Best to leave it to memory-that-never-was.

There’s a big open blue hole in the sky directly in front of me, near the horizon. South, south-east. Everything else is cinching up, like a great skirt being gathered, tied tight. And the blue hole is shrinking.

I’m glad I turned the heat on, somewhat less glad I turned it off in the first place.

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