It’s not cold (thank God it’s not cold), but the kettle is always boiling. I walk into the kitchen, fill the kettle, turn the knob, tip tea leaves in the pot. Whether my cup is full or not.
Winter has a constancy that is appealing and also confining as hell. For now, I enjoy it. The endless tea. The mild weather. The long nights.
In it all, there is tea, there is movement, writing books and reading them. I am reading Thomas Pynchon for the first time, and my days are stained with the smell of that banana breakfast. In the oven, another chicken roasts, marked red with wine. I check again to see if there are any new rental listings. I listen to music, not the news.