When days are busy and interesting there is no time to write. When quiet and settled there is time but nothing really to write about.
Today? Stacked wood, read Wolf Hall, am now listening to opera on CBC 2. My son is sleeping on the couch, a late-winter and late-day sun pouring onto him through the back window. The dog rests by the door, occasionally moans, looks at me with big round eyes. I eat too many roasted, salted nuts. I drink a ton of water.
Next I will take the dog out, walking on the crusted top of a foot or more of old, beaten snow; make a shopping list for a dinner to be cooked (fettuccine with hot sausage, kale and cheese; slices of thick steak pan seared in oil and garlic and rosemary and then served on a bed of baby arugula and with a sauce of red wine vinegar and salt; a salad of young greens, olives, artichoke, pecorino cheese); shop; cook; drink; eat.
The past few months are too full to think about let alone write about. At least not today. Today I am focusing on as little as possible as well as possible. I am busy just watching my son sleep.
David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio
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