With the wind.

The wind can disregard you, diving through your many layers, through your very bones, and right out the other side. There has been such a wondrous cold of late that it and its factoring chill do so with ease and encouragement, cross your arms about yourself as you like.

During a perfect snowstorm I trudged across the tundra of nearby undeveloped land [you know, 'undeveloped' is an interesting and accurate word in more than the common sense--I remember a time when it was developed, moderately wild, though penned by roads, but has since been un-developed (hyphen, of course) to a vast, craggy wasteland] to purchase supplies. Soup supplies, that is, as in butternut squash and pears, as well as cinnamon sticks, and beneath my knitted hat while walking, I listened to and thought about 'building a still'. Now, still, and still I do. Stillness is a thing that I think can be brought about, but in a way that is not an interference with movement. Hmm.

Yes, then, that is what I will do: paint, write music, write stories. Make things that move by standing still. But we will still just wait for the winds to decompose. We must, for as long as we are walking they will bend us to corners.

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At times I believe that things are simply clarifying a more valuable vision.