I got up this morning and went downstairs. I was hopping-cold, wearing my dad's old college football t-shirt. It's too big in a way that slips off my shoulders, but it has his number on it, 86, the same number as the year I was born, which I like and think is lucky. It also has that sort of buttery soft feeling of shirts from 30-odd years ago, which makes it very nice to sleep in. I like to say hey to Sven first thing, who prances and slaps his paws in greeting in a way that Travis swears he learned from his own excited-to-see-you bounce. I got a cup of coffee. I looked at my card (the Hierophant: follow the rules) and checked the news and if I had any messages, of which, of course, I had none of either.
I dressed in an old flower skirt with a cardigan that would get too hot later, even though it's almost the winter solstice, and the boots I bought to wear the Chris's wedding. They are scraped up at the toe now because I drag my feet some and also like to wear them camping and use them to kick the ever-loving shit out of firewood.
On my way to work, I didn't want to listen to my stories, so I listened to crap Norwegian postrock I liked in grad school and thought about the light, whether it's changed as winter has deepened, or if I've just gotten used to the low quality of it. It wasn't a bad-looking morning, all told, very pink and rosy and misty the way a mountain dawn should be. I thought about my year and where I was this time last year, preparing for my excellent nose dive, and what was different or where I was. Beluga day is coming up, and I've been wondering what I'll even say. Last year I talked about what's leftover when everything's changed or gone away, what develops in your identity in the space, but I think the one true thing I said was that the only important thing is other people. I still think that.
My breath smoked so prettily when I walked into work and I smacked the small window of my badge picture against a series of access doors. I go in the IT way, because there's never anybody in those halls. I used to avoid them because my boss used them, but now he's gone, like most everybody, and I like the quiet. There's a big staircase on the far side and it's heated really well, so it's good to warm up in before going up onto my icy third floor.
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I actually worked pretty hard today, of which a representative moment was not when my program operational manager came by to wish me well/pump me for information about the new job I'm taking and if it's one of our competitors, and I was in the middle of writing a really perfect scene that involved a lot of dialogue in italics, so you know that the characters definitely care a lot about what they are saying. I know I am garbage at writing fiction, but I love it, and will not stop, even when I should be writing some things I'm actually good at and selling them.
A friend messaged me to talk about a mutual friend who hasn't got the time of day for her, and what she should do. I felt badly, but thought her ideas to hassle him into it were misplaced; you can't trick somebody into wanting to talk to you if they don't. But everyone seems to be having a little bit of a hard time this month, in all corners of my life. I want to have hard time, too, but there's not really time or space for me as well. It's a hard time of year. Tomorrow will be 13 degrees colder than today and a little bit darker, but I guess not for much longer.
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My spotify "top played songs of 2017" was pretty illuminating. The 2-10 spots were occupied solely by my running playlist, which felt good, since I listen to spotify every day otherwise, and it meant I ran a lot. But the top spot was Carin at the Liquor Store, naturally.
I listened to said running list tonight during my 5 miles. There was just a little light left, maybe for half a mile, and I didn't see of my deer at all. You always see them rushing around at full moon, but I think in the new moon they prefer to stand in big groups, lurk in my running paths and startle me.
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