LA is still cold. My friends from England don't believe me when I tell them that. You can always spot the tourists, because they are dressed for perennial summer. We dutifully swap out our summer clothes for winter, sneak wool into our wardrobes, don boots and freeze our arses off in houses with no insulation and plenty of glass sliding doors. J, who's beginning to look a lot like Lenin (this he had to clarify; I thought he said Lennon), and I are sitting by a big fire, reading our books under our blankets. He's listening to Waylon Jennings and telling me about the Buddy Holly plane crash. (Waylon gave up his seat on that plane). I'm reading Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson, our current book club selection, and I'm lost in the mountains of northern Pakistan with a crazy American with a notion of building a school.
This is the closest we come to domestic bliss, being in the same room together, with the dogs, the fire, our books, his beard, our cups of tea. It's the end of the winter holidays finally. N is back at Bard & we miss him already. It was time for him to go, I realize, and he has work to do, but the last few days were so sweet with him, so easy and kind. Minks is asleep trying to fight another cold. The vegetarian diet went out the window when the cold arrived or maybe it was the suggestion of carnitas on the menu at lunch that was the final temptation. Bean, the puppy with the displace knee cap, is fascinated by the flames. She has been standing by the fireplace for five minutes, just staring at it. Everytime the fire spits or cracks, she startles, but she doesn't move away. Johnny Cash is singing "Ring of Fire."