Over shrimp tikka masala.

There's been a cold snap, as they say. It was gray and legitimately chilly today.

Me:  It's definitely cold enough for tights, except for my rule.

The historian:  What's that, again?

Me:  Once you wear tights, no more bare legs.

The historian:  I see.

garbage rules, Jean-François Chénier

Me:  ....and the reverse in the spring--once you wear bare legs, no more tights.

The historian: I saw a couple of young women today on campus--they were wearing tights.

Me: I know. I would have, too. But I have the rule.

The historian: [contemplates.]

Me:  It's like my personal "no white after Labor Day" rule.

The historian: And my rule is "wear shorts for as long as possible."

Dear intermittent transitional sniffle,

By my count, this is the third interval at which you have recurred since September began. With the listlessness. The hot eyes. The, yes, unfortunate itchy, sniffly eponymous nose. I am, quite frankly,
a little annoyed that you are here again.

Intermittent transitional sniffle, what angel are you? What messenger? Are you here to tell me that cold is coming? That the days will be darker?

If I had to guess, I'd wager that you're telling me in all but words--in the language of the symptom--that I need more sleep. And also that, with more sleep, I would not feel, at this moment, so beleaguered, stressed out, overwhelmed all at once--and really, at an escalating rate over the last week and a half. Sleep, you're saying. Sleep!

Intermittent transitional sniffle: I hear you, but do you have to be so pushy?

htms

Change in the weather.

The wind felt like it was blowing from the north, with us walking into it and it blowing incipient rain or snow in our faces.

I wore something warm, but not warm enough.

In the west, the sky was red or orange or rose--something in that vein--at 10:30 p.m. What's that? we asked ourselves. Was it wind or traffic we heard, or was there a beating of rotors out there? was that light sweeping across the sky?

The dog gallivanted. He raced ahead, dove deep into the yards we passed, turned back on us to play.

The snow is supposed to arrive at midnight. At midnight, there is supposed to be snow.

Requirements.

For a good two weeks at the Idaho cabin during an unseasonably cold June:

1. More wool socks than you brought.

2. A cozier sweater than you brought.

3. Piles and piles and piles of firewood.

4. The foresight to recognize that you're going to wake up to snow, therefore you should leave the heaters on.

5. Toast. A ton of it. And warm beverages.

6. Many, many, many books.

7. The patience to sit by the fireplace and tend it. Alternatively, a partner who exhibits that patience, aka The Historian.

8. Fortitude. And blankets.

9. Mittens.

The sick.

Given a requisite amount of contagion and proximity to it, you might find yourself sick in bed on a Monday after the long weekend. Sick, as in, maybe I'll catch up on the last of the grading, but no. Sick as in, maybe a shower would make me feel better, but no. Sick as in, I might need to go out for a couple of minutes to mail my manuscript times six, but that made my eyes, teeth, ears and skin hurt.

Sick as in, where's the justice, the people?

In case you are planning a bout of this type of illness, here's a handy guide to the things you can do while sick, and some things you can't:

1. you can read 25 pages of a novel

2. you cannot read 2 paragraphs of a theory book

3. you can heat soup in a microwave

4. you can toast bread

5. you can make a cup of tea

6. you cannot chop anything

7. you can lay in bed with the dog

8. you cannot take the dog for a walk

9. you can watch television, but your eyes will hurt

10. you can assist your beloved with the crossword with your eyes closed

11. you cannot grade

12. you can remember when it is time to take the DayQuil Severe Cold and Flu again.

In conclusion, it is time for me to lie down again. Good night.

Cold = hibernate.

For is not the very metaphor for the love of God for mankind a cradle? aka, a bed? and is there anything at all wrong with just chilling out/checking out for an evening or so, when the weather is cold and it's also, and not uncoincidentally, dark?

Sigh.

Where is my motivation?

[side note: the historian thinks

that Carmelo A. is a punk.]

And on that note, I will leave you with this, from a book that arrived today. I ordered it because I no longer remember why, way back awhile ago when somewhere I ran across it and had to have it but it wasn't quite printed yet, a book called L'Usage du Monde, trans. The Way of the World. It is written by Nicolas Bouvier, and it is about the year and half (1953-54) in which he and his friend Thierry drove in their old Fiat from Geneva to the Khyber Pass:

Travelling outgrows its motives. It soon proves sufficient in itself. You think you are making a trip, but soon it is making you--or unmaking you.

Young Nicolas.

And this is where they went. Although sometimes they stopped for a bit, to linger, slouch around, perhaps . . . to hibernate? Reading on . . .

TAGS: Afghanistan, Iran, travel, hibernate

Cold, cold, or cold medicine?

After a packed-full teaching and other faculty-work work week, after writing and delivering a paper, after seeing Bright Star, after taking a particularly emotional poem to my writing group and getting what felt to me like a small amount of gratuitous snark, I fell prey to what seems like my by-now-familiar stress-ailment--something very like a cold, with sneezing, a little fever, hot eyes, tendency to fall apart. But yesterday and today, I had no commitments, aside from some online chat appointments with students, so I was able to stay home, and found myself prone to resting. Actually prone. As in, horizontal, for much of both days.

Is it an actual illness? Is it the fact that it's a little bit cold in my house and, for that matter, outside? Or is it the generic cold medicine I took? I don't know for a fact, but the fact is, I slept a lot. And when I wasn't sleeping, I actually did a fair amount of my work lying in bed. Like, I don't know, Proust. Or Milton, or Swift; or Voltaire, Trollope, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Colette, and Winston Churchill.

I'm investigating as of this moment the feasibility of an academic discipline called Bed Studies. You study the cultural significance of beds and bed-related artifacts. In Advanced Bed Studies, you take classes and teach from bed. I am the founder of this discipline, though I give the nod to my forbears. I rest on the featherbeds of giants.

Stuff that makes me glad.

1. making a splendid dinner out of stuff I have in my house
2. having good stuff in my house to make a splendid dinner (see how that works both ways?)
3. making and eating dinner with people I love
4. the way the fallen poplar and maple leaves make a glowing mosaic on my lawn (really, why rake? overrated.)

Today, after Bruiser and I walked in weather that exemplified what is best about November, I put on a cozy sweater and decided not to worry any more about the election. And I didn't worry. Much. I'll be up early to vote (that's as opposed to voting early).