Someone doesn’t seem too happy with the countryside life:
I’m not falling for the pumpkins this time. No amount of fog–on–pond in the morning, red maple trees, or fresh cider is going to distract me from what the state so desperately wants me to forget: winter is coming… There was hoarfrost on the grass along the road to work a full three weeks ago. In the mornings now there is a bite and a chill; the dogs fill the air with steam when they run out to the pond… I am living somebody's bucolic rural fantasy. I wake up in the morning to slanting yellow sunlight, many times with cello music filtering up from the room below (I live with a concert cellist). The sound is soft but fills the entire house, now that the birds have flown and the frogs are sleeping somewhere in the muck… Whoever this bucolic fantasy belongs to (and I suspect it's some burnt out middle-aged city dweller who wants to drink cocoa and wear reindeer sweaters), they are welcome to it.
Well! The ungrateful woman! She wants her city life back and is moving to New York! Oh! The shame! [cheeky smile] Well, Maciej, there’s a twentysomething guy right here in a city who’s not burnt out or middle–aged at all, and who’d love that kind of winter — for a winter or two. I’d not go for an escape as much as a change: I love my technology and my city life. But as a writer I’m always aware that if I was dragged somewhere I didn'’t have those things, I’d definitely write more. These days I write best over winter. And since that’s so, a Vermont winter is as good, if not better, than any other. Sign me up!, and have my bedroom.
Although I suppose the cello tuning could get a bit much.
And here are some outrageously cute, big–eyed Swedish kittens. (via Incoming Signals.)
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