When i woke up this morning the rooftops were covered with snow, but the sky was dull and gray, as if exhausted by the effort of the previous night.
I went outside to shovel, and found the medians covered with several inches of snow. Except for the plastic bags stuck in the tree branches, it could have been 100 years ago.
Walking up the block to the house, I wished -- and not for the first time -- that cars were banned from Manhattan. (Except for my car, of course.)
I shoveled most of the snow in the front and then went to the garden, where I hoped that our new day lilies were only sleeping under a thick blanket, and not suffocated.
The birch tree and evergreens, by contrast, really step to the fore in the 'winter garden' and seem almost joyous (yet serene) in the snow, as if they have been looking forward to it since suffering through the horrible humidity of the summer.
The Hinoki Cypress bowed gracefully.
The statue had a new hat.
The blue atlas cedar always looks great in the snow.
Returning to the front yard, I was relieved not to have to shovel the snow again.
Back on Broadway, a bus was 'not in service.'
In the lobby, I felt tired and frozen as I waited for the elevator.
I spent the afternoon researching non-heterosexual culture circa 1960 and taking naps with the cats. From Samuel Delany's memoir 'The Motion of Light in Water: Sex and Science Fiction Writing in the East Village 1957 - 1965,' I extracted the following quote:
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