I really do intend to spend more time writing this year. The fact that it is currently the second week in February notwithstanding.
The strategy here is brevity, apparently. My desktop is littered with quarter-finished blog posts that got too long and were put aside to be “finished later”. My laptop’s power supply went blooie and is currently in a state of semi-repaired traction; that t’ing ain’ goin’ nowhere. Not until I buy a new power brick. So I can’t even write in the rare quiet moments at work anymore.
I attended B-Fest this year, and the getaway came not a moment too soon. I was… seriously… on the verge of some sort of breakdown or explosion at the Hated Job, and four days in the company of my friends was a much-needed balm. I can’t say I arrived at the office after four days of sleep deprivation re-energized or restored, but I was better able to put up with crap for a week or so, until i could finally collapse.
The Bad Movie Gods smiled upon us that week, for though it never got above freezing while we were there, the week after we left, Chicago turned into freakin’ Niflheim. Temperatures are still in the minuses as I write this.
It was really lovely while I was there. I admit I’ve been wondering lately, whenever I see an idyllic winter scene in, say, Victorian England, how those people survived with a mere coat and hat. In twenty-something Chicago, i frequently gadded about with a stocking cap and heavy flannel shirt. Wouldn’t have wanted to spend hours like that, but it was quite revelatory. Yes, as a lifelong Texan, I am used to horrible, humid winters, terrible, bitter things. In Chicago, the humidity stayed on the ground in a thin white layer, and it was brisk and wonderful.
Then the ice weasels came to stay, and I am once more glad that I live in a land where, as they say, “you don’t have to shovel humidity.” Hope things get better for you soon, my icebound brethren.
Dang, that wasn’t brief at all.
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