I think Neil came home last night, from Boston, by way of Manhattan, but we've not seen him yet.
All in all, I can't say this trip has been a success. I did manage to write one short story, and a decent one, and a few pages of screenplay, but so far that's it. And I'm running out of time. The specter of the necessary return to Providence looms ugly and large. My traumatized left big toe is a symbol of this trip's shortfall. Of my failure to move quickly enough.
They seem to have taken most of the snow out of tomorrow's forecast. That's the bright side.
I'm in one of those peculiar places freelancers often find themselves. In a few weeks, I'll likely be sitting on enough money to see me comfortably through 2015. But right now, I'm pretty spent. And people who owe me money are dragging their feet. And, worse yet, losing checks. I'm thinking of putting up a PayPal donation button, if things don't improve in the next couple of days.
Yesterday I bit the bullet and put a shoe on my left foot. I laced my feet into my Docs (my "new" Docs, not the one's I've had since 1993), took up my walking stick, and I hobbled through the ice and snow to the van, and we drove to the market in Hurley, which is a little ways south of Woodstock. The day was – like to day – blindingly bright. I wore my sunglasses against the diamond glare of the sun off the snow. Driving through Woodstock, the snow is slush, filthy brown-black-grey slush, sidewalks submerged by melt water, all the ugly sights that the combination of snow and automobiles creates. But back away from the road, the winter in untouched. On the way home, we stopped just off the intersection of 212 (Mill Hill Road) and 375 (Levon Helm Boulevard, West Hurley Road) to take some photographs of the frozen Saw Kill. The camera batteries immediately went belly up, and I hadn't brought any replacements. But, still, it was good to be out.
Toady, I'm going to try to work. But first some photos (and I may post a second set later today):
6:29 p.m., Monday
The window above the bed.
11:49 a.m., Tuesday
The window where I write; the view from the desk.
Turkey tracks in the snow. Snow dinosaurs.
So, there's this old farmhouse house off Tinker Street (at 42° 2'22.08"N, 74° 8'8.61"). I would so gladly spend the rest of my life in this house. Or a very similar house. I would, of course, infinitely prefer it to be in Alabama, or maybe Georgia. But could that house be mine, I might be willing to live out the rest of my life in the cold.
Overlook Mountain, watching over Woodstock.
A footbridge over the Saw Kill. Ski tracks.
The frozen Saw Kill, view to the east.
A happy accident, 5:36 p.m.
All photographs Copyright © 2015 by Caitlín R. Kiernan and Kathryn A. Pollnac
And, I should mention "adoribad," the latest evidence that many Millennials and their spawn are out to murder the English language with baby-talk.