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It was snowing this morning—of course, it was!—while I reviewed my heating expenses for February: $440 for heating oil and $153 to Central Hudson.

That's only half the heating bill for the house.

Fuckin' insane.

Central Hudson needs to be taken over by the State of New York. But I don't know what one can do about the heating oil. Except move to a warmer place.

###

My good deed for yesterday:

One of my clients was a very feisty 87-year old. She appeared primordial to me, like an ancient Baba Yaga, which may have been the racial disparity—she was Black, and I am white—or may have been due to the fact that she'd neglected to put in her dentures.

Anyway, this lady had a Cadillac healthcare plan through the City of New York, her former employer, but Medicare was still taking out $220 a month from her Social Security.

"You might want to look into that," I told her granddaughter. "I mean, it's possible each healthcare provider is providing a different set of services, and she uses both. But it's also possible you're looking at redundant costs and can get an extra $220 a month by getting rid of that Medicare payment."

She's been going to Schlock for 20 years, and I was the first one to point this out to her.

###

In other news, I will be interviewing real-life Daria today after I scamper home from the tax trenches. Here are the questions I've prepared:

1. Can you tell me your five most vivid memories of Mexico?

2. What did it feel like in your body the first weeks after moving from Mexico City to the U.S.—were you more numb, anxious, exhilarated, something else?

3. Is there a specific moment from that first year—at school, in the street, at home—when you realized, “I am not in Mexico anymore,” and what happened?

4. When you think back to meeting Brian in the PD’s office, what are the first three sensory details that come up—what you saw, heard, or felt in your body?

5. What did you think Brian saw in you, and how did that perception change over the years you knew him?

6. How did the relationship move between friendship, mentorship, and sexuality over time, and did those roles ever feel like they were in conflict?

7. Were there specific conversations or arguments with Brian that you feel “made” you—changed how you think about law, justice, or yourself?

8. Did you ever feel a power imbalance because of age, profession, or life experience, and if so, how did you navigate or rationalize it at the time?

9. When you look back now, what do you wish your younger self had known about him—or about you?

10. How did being with Brian interact with your romantic life outside him—did he complicate other relationships, or make them easier to understand?

11. After Brian died, what was the strangest or most unexpected way your grief showed up (a habit, a dream, a physical sensation, a decision you made)?

12. If you had to describe your emotional “role” in Brian’s life in one sentence—as he might have described it—what would that sentence be?

13. When you first realized you were sexually attracted to Brian, what surprised you most about that feeling—his age, his role, your own response, something else?

14. Can you describe your very first sexual encounter with him in terms of mood and pacing—was it slow and negotiated, impulsive, awkward, inevitable?

15. What did Brian do in bed that made you feel particularly seen or desired—not just physically, but as a person?

16. Were there things you only did sexually with Brian and never with anyone else, and what about him made those feel possible or safe?

17. Did the fact that you worked in the same universe (courts, law, defendants) bleed into your erotic life together—role‑play, gallows humor, power dynamics?

18. How did sex with him feel in your body—grounding, explosive, dissociative, comforting, like coming home, like leaving?

19. Was there ever a moment during sex or after where you suddenly felt your age difference very sharply—either in a good way or as a jolt of discomfort?

20. How did your conversations immediately after sex usually go—jokey debrief, political talk, silence, tenderness, scheduling the next time?

21. Did you ever feel like his other lovers were in the bed with you emotionally—comparing, competing, imagining his history—and how did you manage that?

22. Was there ever a specific fight or rupture around sex—jealousy, boundaries, pregnancy scares, STI scares—that you remember as a turning point?

23. When you think of his body now, what are the 2–3 details that come back first (not necessarily erotic—could be scars, smells, textures, nervous habits)?

24. Did you ever notice a difference between “grief sex,” “reassurance sex,” and “just because” sex with him—and if so, how could you tell from the inside?

25. How did your bilingual/trilingual brain show up during sex—were there certain words or dirty talk that had to be in Spanish or French, and if so, why?

26. Did you two have any long‑running sexual jokes or coded phrases—things that would sound innocuous to others but were charged for you?

27. How did you end things physically—was there a clear “last time” you slept together, and did you know it was the last time while it was happening?

28. Looking back, is there anything you regret not doing with him sexually or emotionally—something you were curious about but held back from?

29. Has your body ever surprised you with a grief reaction—arousal at an unexpected reminder of him, or the opposite, sudden numbness with someone new?

30. In your fantasy life now, does he still appear, and if so, does he show up more as a lover, a friend, a ghost, a critic, or something stranger?

31. Imagine you are trying to explain the sexual part of the relationship to a skeptical friend—what is the one argument or image you would use to say, “This wasn’t just another older guy using me; it was this”?

32. How did your relationship to Spanish change after the move—did it feel like a refuge, a secret, a source of shame, a weapon?

33. When did English start to feel like something you could think and feel in, not just translate into, and was there a particular event that marked that shift?

34. Do you experience different “selves” in Spanish, English, and French—if so, how would you describe the personality or emotional color of each language?

35. In simultaneous translation, what does it feel like inside your head—are you ahead of the speaker, chasing them, or hovering in parallel?

36. Can you describe a moment on the job when the emotional weight of what you were translating nearly broke your professional neutrality? What did you do with that feeling?

37. Have you ever made a deliberate choice to soften, sharpen, or slightly alter someone’s words while interpreting because the literal translation felt emotionally or ethically wrong?

38. What does fatigue feel like for you after a long day of simultaneous interpreting—mental fog, physical tension, emotional overload—and how do you come down from that state?

39. Do you ever carry other people’s stories and emotions home with you through their words, and if so, how do you protect or “clean” your own inner voice?
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UGH. It's snowing again. And I'm gonna have to drive in it.

###

On the bright side, I may have negotiated my way out of a problematic situation with a Remuneration client who has been bawking about paying me half up front. May have, being the operative phrase there.

But that's standard in work-for-hire arrangements, I told him, which is true enough.

Also on the bright side: I slept eight hours last night.

A few days ago, I did something to my back. It was a very weird pain, right between my shoulder blades at the very spot from which my wings would sprout if only I were an angel.

I have no idea what I actually did to produce this pain. And it has partially resolved, but also partially not—now, it's a right-sided ache just below my right scapula with some nerve involvement because I can feel it in my right arm & hand.

It's not heartstoppingly painful.

But when I lie on my right side, it's a dull, steady message from the interior. And I sleep mostly on my right side. So, the ache has been screwing with my sleep. Yesterday, I was absolutely brain-dead but managed to get through the top five items on my To Do List—becawse ya gotta do what ya gotta do. But I didn't enjoy any of it.

###

In Work In Progress news, I tried to start writing Part II but failed to make headway.

For this visit, we'd formulated an agenda, I wrote. Storm King for the Calders, Olana for the Persian arches and views of the Hudson River's tidal inlets (this year blooming with algae). Teilhard de Chardin is buried at the Culinary Institute of America—who knew?—so we were going to pay our respects to the Omega Point and afterwards dine on truffle soup and braised cuisse de canard Bourguignon at the student-staffed French restaurant. Mostly, though, we planned to fuck.

I mean, it's a good cheap laugh, and it sets the stage for chronicling Neal's erotic encounters—but it is not grounded in anything that actually happened: Real-life Daria and real-life Neal did not have a particularly workable sexual relationship.

But since I do want this part of the novel to be erotic, I spent some time last evening reading the rather horrible chick lit writer Emily Henry's rather horrible Funny Story. It was loaded with bad sex scenes! This filled me simultaneously with horror—the sex scenes are baaaaaaaaad—but also hope—because Funny Story was a bestseller, and I could toss off sex scenes like that in my sleep. On the nights I get some.
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It's still snowing, and I don't want to jinx anything, but...

It's looking like we were well outside the bombogenesis perimeter.

Yes, "bombogenesis" is a real word! It refers to a storm where barometric pressure drops by at least 24 millibars in 24 hours. With this particular storm, the barometric pressure dropped a mind-boggling 44 millibars, but it dropped somewhat to the south and east of where I'm located. Which made for some crazy totals over comparatively short distances: Like 15" in Fishkill but only 5" in Poughkeepsie.

We ended up getting around five inches of the Hideous White Stuff here.

###

We expected snow all day yesterday, but it didn't come. Instead, it was just dismal and grey and awful. I went into the office and sat there reading Midnight In the Garden of Good & Evil, which left me with a deep desire to visit Savannah even though the best thing about Midnight In the Garden of Good & Evil is its title.

###

In the evening, Ichabod upset me on the phone by reminding me my housing options would be considerably better if I didn't have pets.

Of course, I know he's right, but the kiskas have more-or-less saved my sanity these last few extremely difficult months. They have functioned effectively as a family for me; they are good company and affectionate in their highly idiosyncratic way. As awful as this place is, I'd rather live here forever than give up my gurlZ.

But I hope it won't come to that.

###

Writing-wise, I am preparing to embark upon the Daria portion of the novel.

Ideally, I would pull this off with a Jennifer-Egan-style switch of the PoV voice. Realistically, I may not be a good enough writer to do this. The important thing here, though, is not to show off my dazzling writerly gifts but to finish the damn thing however best I can.

To that end, I am setting up an interview with real-life Daria.

###

Here is a photograph of real-life Daria:



She's very beautiful, as you can see! Kinda Snow White-ish with that pure white overflip.

What I'm primarily interested in is her sexual relationship with Brian.

Grazia and Neal don't have a sexual relationship, so in the first part of the book, Neal combines the best qualities of a father and a wisecracking teddy bear.

But in the second part of the book, Neal must come across as an erotic god!

Which should be challenging.

I've read my share of porn & erotica over the years. And written it, too. For pay! 😀 My porn was always criticized for "too much story"! I guess the sexual tropes that turn most people on do very little for me; it's always the relationships that drive the sex that make it hot for me. The single most erotic book I ever read was Susannah Moore's In the Cut, wherein a professor of English stumbles into an affair with a homicide detective who drives her mad with desire with a strange little crooking gesture he does with his forefinger.

So, yes, I have to study up on real-life Neal's kinks.

But I also have to figure out what it feels like to be so fluent in three languages (as Daria is) that the languages all swirl together in your brain, and what it feels like to be that seductive—because real-life Daria is oh-so-seductive.

Also, I have to come up with a rescue situation that can play analogously to Grazia's cult rescue. Doesn't have to be as dramatic. But that's a connecting thematic element in each of the three parts of the book: Neal saves each of the women in some way.
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Slipped off into The Zone for many hours last night while hammering away at a climactic scene near the end of Part I in the Work In Progress.

The Zone is a kind of oneness with the act of creation that can best be likened to a benign psychotic episode. You climb so far inside what you're creating that all your critical faculties disappear. Your brain is tracking imaginary events the same way it tracks real (ha, ha, ha!) events! It's wild. It's fun!

But you have no idea whether what you're writing is good or bad.

And it's a kind of mania, so it's physically unhealthy. When you fly that near the sun, your wings can get burned. Last night, for example, I didn't fall asleep till 1 a.m., but I still got up at 6—it's almost impossible for me to sleep in—so I'm feeling quite brain dead right now.

And I still haven't yet dared sneak a peek at what I wrote last night: Neal's rescue of Grazia just before she's about to be waterboarded baptized by spooky apocalypse cult. What if it's terrible, overly melodramatic drivel? It very easily could be.

###

Plus, we're heading into the fifth consecutive day of grey, impenetrable sky and blank white snow. A grey and white world is hard on the eyes. No doubt, that's compounding my addled, sleep-deprived mind set. Right now in this present moment, there's barely anything that's happened to me in my everyday-a-little-bit-longer life that I don't regret in some way. I line my pillows with regret!

My financial situation is in flux. Schlock isn't giving me the hours I want, and the current Remuneration client stopped communicating with me after making the current Remunerative assignment, leading me to wonder whether this isn't some kind of augury of how they're gonna react when I present my invoice. Shitty behavior! Do I ignore it & keep on working, figuring: Of course, they'll pay me! Or do I cut bait now and keep the retainer?

The Patrizia-torium is an utter mess.

And I'm living in a geographic location I dislike, where I have no friends to commune with or even activity partners to hang out with casually. I have plenty of friends, of course, with whom I communicate through phone calls, texts, & email & at some point during each and every one of those phone calls, texts, & emails, both parties invariably lament: I wish we lived closer...

But the only reason I'm not dying of loneliness is that I'm pathologically self-involved, and thus can survive for looooong periods of time entertaining myself.

Maybe that's all resilience really is: a pathological level of self-involvement.

###

I miss Brian.

The fact that he was so supremely self-confident in his choices, and that one of his choices was to love me, made him a grounding force.

Without him, I feel neither grounded nor lovable.
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Twenty-five hundred words into Chapter 6.

Fifteen hundred to go.

I have no idea whether it's any good or not. Fictioneering like this is uncharted territory for me. But writing is definitely engrossing, so if nothing else, the Work In Progress will have gotten me through a brutal winter, relatively psychologically unscathed. Which is a good thing.

###

Ichabod asked me point-blank if I wanted him to start giving me a set monthly amount toward living expenses.

I said, No: "Not right now. We both know the financial burden of my support is going to fall on you at some point in the future because my fixed income from social security & pensions is not enough to support me. But I'd like to delay that moment as long as possible. You work hard for your money, and you deserve to enjoy it. I can work the Rube Goldberg side-hustle gigs for a while longer. I'll know when I can't."

Jeanna asked if I wanted her BF to fly me out to New Mexico some time this summer. I said, Sure. Though it's inconceivable to me that this winter is ever going to end: The landscape is buried beneath seven inches of snow, and the sky is unrelentingly grey & overcast. Temps this week are gonna flirt with 40° but drop again next week. I honestly do not know how humans managed to survive these kinds of living conditions back when they relied on wood-burning stoves for heat and horses for transportation.
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A Fitbit that won't stay charged for more than 16 hours is worse than no Fitbit at all.
Reluctantly, I accepted this yesterday and prepared my Fitbit for its final journey to the lithium-ion battery waste facility. Om Ami Deva Hrih...

Do I need a Fitbit? The damn thing has never accurately measured my activity on account of it straps to my wrist, not my ankle, and when I'm walking fast on a treadmill, I hold on to the side rails, I don't move my arms. I take it as an article of faith that the Fitbit measures my sleep patterns, and that's the bodily function I'm most concerned with because I never feel as though I get enough sleep! But does it really?

Whatevs, there won't be a new Fitbit this month. My share of the heating oil delivery referenced yesterday is an astounding $440. I don't know whether this is due to the Law of Supply & Demand—winter this year is brutally cold; people have been going through a lot more heating oil than they usually do; supplies are short—or whether it represents price gauging. Probably both.

Anyway, there won't be any discretionary income purchases this month.

And probably not next month either.

###

Meanwhile, the Social Security Administration is apparently instructing employees to tell hysterical callers, Suicide is one option.

And then there's this article about a male narcissist cult. Members of this cult are called Looksmaxers, and they revere Matt Bomer, whom I would agree is the most beautiful male human ever spawned upon this planet.

###

In News of the Work In Progress, I am deep into hammering out Chapter 6. This one is tricky because there are so many points at which the whole thing could slide off into melodrama, particularly the Spooky Baptism Scene at the end of which Neal is actually gonna swoop down and rescue Grazia. Most of the chapter should be written in a hyper-realistic style with a lot of vivid visuals but minimal humor until after the rescue scene, when the tension lets up, and Grazia can go back to her regularly scheduled wisecracking.

From there, the writing style should get lighter and lighter and lighter until the final poignant line at the end—The heartbreak for me is the lonely guardianship of all those memories, floaters from an increasingly ephemeral past—when the reader suddenly remembers: Oh, right. Neal's dead.

I mean, the whole point of this section of the novel is to make Neal a vivid enough character so that the reader forgets that he's dead.

###

I am hoping to complete Chapter 6 over the holiday weekend.

We'll see if I can.
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CRAZY cold when I woke up this morning: -5°F with a real-feel of -13°.

This has been a brutal winter.

The Work in Progress has really saved me.

It's giving my life meaning & forward momentum at a time when, honestly, life feels like an unrelenting slog.

I am the oyster, goo goo g'joob. Pressure makes a pearl!

###

Why do people join cults anyway?

I think because despite the fact that end-stage capitalism dangles meaningless choices in front of captive consumers—choose between 87,000 (!!!) possible combinations of Starbucks caffein customization options—most people don't like making choices, not really. They prefer to crawl into a set of lifestyle choices that have already been made and claim them as their own.

So, I suppose Chapter 6 begins with an observation along the lines of, In my real life, I made a hundred decisions a day: [Your facetious list goes here.] But here in Creepy Mansion, I made no decisions at all. It was relaxing.

But where does it proceed from there?

A word came into my mind yesterday: Profoundary.

I have no idea what a prefoundary is, but I know it's a key element in the New Millennium Kingdom lifestyle.

Oh, and I do want to do a Bible Study parody.

###

Other than that...

Neal has to rescue Grazia, but I don't want that to seem too melodramatic or Lifetime Television-y, plus Grazia has to be profoundly changed by the New Millennium Kingdom experience—henceforth, she does believe that the Universe has a plan and that every move she makes is part of it, preordained somehow.

And the chapter will end with this line after Neal dies and the point-of-view segues back to the front porch of the Catskills cabin where Grazia, Daria, and Flavia have gathered after Neal's memorial service: The heartbreak for me is the lonely guardianship of all those memories, floaters from an increasingly ephemeral past.
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I'm ashamed of being an American this morning.

Not sure I've ever felt that so specifically before. With all its flaws, I've always believed opportunity is not quite as rigged here in favor of the ruling classes as it is in other places.

But that video Trump posted, superimposing the Obamas' heads over cartoon apes' bodies.

That video really says everything you need to know about the United States.

If I were a Black American, I think I'd do anything I could to limit my interactions with white Americans, particularly my interactions with weak, namby-pamby white Americans like me who raise our voices feebly in protest but who are absolutely powerless to stop the surging tide of white supremecy.

###

In other news, it finally dawned on me that Chapter 5 is actually Chapters 5 and 6. Even when I tighten the prose, so much happens that the words keep piling. A natural break occurs when Grazia drives off to Creepy Mansion with the New Millennium Kingdom perps.

Not sure yet how I'm gonna frame Chapter 6. Obviously, Grazia can't stay at Creepy Mansion very long, and I'm not sure what she's gonna do there. I guess I could write a demented Bible Study scene! Not sure either how to manage Neal's metamorphosis into Sir Rescue riding a white charger.

###

It's 9°F out there right now. And the mercury is falling.
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We had a brief respite from the punishingly cold temperatures: Last few days, temps actually broke freezing. But today, the polar vortex is bearing back down again. The National Weather Service has issued a Severe Weather Alert: Dangerously cold wind chills as low as 20 to 35 below zero expected throughout the quaint & scenic Hudson Valley.

This disinclines me to leave the house 'cause what if—minute chance, but still—my car breaks down on the way to the gym? Frostbite on exposed skin in as little as 10 minutes.

###

In Work in Progress news: We are up to the Debbie Reynolds death scene, which occurs during an ICU code, so I am wracking my tiny brain for status detail.

Then Grazia ends up going to the creepy New Millennium Kingdom mansion, where she spends 18 hours a day praying as the initial prep work for dismantling her personality begins.

Neal rescues her!

Big dilemma: Does Neal rescue her before or after the creepy mansion bursts into flame from a faulty electrical connection? (Decisions, decisions!)

Then Neal & Grazia have to have some sort of Meaningful Conversation on the front porch of Neal's Catskills cabin.

And magically, perspective swirls so that we are back at the very first scene of Part 1 when Grazia drives up there following Neal's memorial.

It would be great if I could tweak the closing prose too, so it mimics the chick lit cadence of that opening chapter, but I'm not sure I have the writing chops to pull that one off.

But after that, we start with Part 2: Daria.

###

I have my own Bad Cult memories, though I'd have to do some serious excavating to access them since they're buried under many decades of petrified protective amnesia.

As a teenager, I had dealings with a cult called Synanon.

Synanon didn't eat me, but it ate some people I cared about back then—most notably, Michael Garrett whom I still wonder about sometimes late at night.

I'm not sure how many of those Bad Cult memories I can repurpose. They're awfully immersive, and immersion is only of questionable usefulness in a passage that's supposed to be 1,500 words or so in length max. Don't really want to distract from the essential story, which is Neal & Grazia.

Here is Michael Garrett and me in 1968:



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The 100-yard electrical relay to the chickens' water has failed again. The extension cords are buried beneath a foot and a half of snow, and I'm not even going to fantasize about digging them out because that would be impossible. I'm just gonna have to haul fresh water out to the chickens every day and hope they can drink enough in the 20 minutes or so before that water freezes—the temps at night have been going down to -7°F (real feel: -15°F) and barely graze 20°F (real feel: 5°F) during the day—not to die of thirst.

I don't know what else to do.

This Arctic front has been brutal. My share of the electric & heating oil bills this month came to $500, and honestly? I don't know how I am gonna pay it. I suppose since I will be out of here come spring (please, please, please, Universe), the smart thing would be to tell Icky to take it out of the rental deposit. I mean, there are certainly many folk I could plead my story to who would be happy to help me out, I suspect, but how humiliating is that? Come rescue me! I can't take care of myself!

If Brian were alive, this would not be an issue. He would give me the money & tell me to shut up when I tried to thank him.

###

In more amusing news, Facebook has decided to give me a professional account because many, many years ago, when I first signed up for FB, I facetiously gave my profession as "Cat News Aggregator" and started a regular posting feature called "Today's Exciting Cat News." Apparently, that little daily posting feature attracts some threshold number of eyeballs. An FB professional account gives one access to all sorts of interesting user-tracking info.

And my Substack attracts more (free) subscribers every day, though it's a long way away from being monetizable.

###

Life is just very stressful right now. A real slog. I remind myself that it won't be that way forever, but one thing about me: I live very fully in the present tense; in fact, Ichabod told me once I was the most existential person he had ever known. When things suck, it's very hard for me to envision a future point in which things will not suck, and that renders mobilizing future options for non-suckitude solely an intellectual exercise. Emotionally, I just want to curl up somewhere & cry.
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We ended up getting about two feet of snow.

Brandi couldn't have been nicer when I finally connected with her, and her husband is out there plowing the driveway now. I will have to go out & shovel the bits that couldn't be plowed and also salt the bits that could be plowed since it's sleeting now, and it's only 20°F, which means every surface is going to ice over. Also, I want to check on the poor chickens. Their coop is a good 100 yards from the house. 100 yards under two feet of snow.

The electricity did not go out, for which I am deeply grateful. The Internet went down, but it is back up now.

I feel mentally exhausted. I do not like this Little House on the Prairie shit at all.

But ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

So onward, fellow humans.
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Did absolutely nothing yesterday through a combination of lassitude, political despair, distracting phone calls, & Icky on the premises. Waiting for a Major Weather Event shares a lot in common with standing on line at the DMV; you see that processing is gonna take a lonnnnnng time, and you know you'd be better off doing something useful during the wait, but you can't because your skitterish mind won't let go of the countdown.

###

Alex Pretti's murder hit me hard.

An ICU nurse who worked with wounded veterans, his last action on this planet was to try and help a woman border patrol agents had tear-gassed. He was trying to record the incident with a phone in one hand. He also had a gun on his person that he had a permit to carry, and Minnesota is a permit-to-carry state. He was pushed to the ground, the gun was taken, and then he was shot 11 times through the back. Execution style.

###

Later on the phone with a friend, I said, "It's a civil war, isn't it?"

"Pretty much," my friend said.

"I wish I knew about some communication method that couldn't be spied on," I said. "Because the time has come for an organized response."

"There isn't anything that's 100% reliable. The closest thing is Signal. Open source & encrypted on both the sending and receiving end."

"You know, I almost wish I had a terminal cancer diagnosis," I said. "I would go full-on Charlotte Corday and take out Marat—"

"Careful, careful, careful," said my friend. "This is not a protected communication channel."

"Oh, my good buddy at the Department of Homeland Security knows I was just kidding about that," I said. "Don't you, Ice Barbie?"

###

Icky was up here for two full weeks, the longest amount of time he's ever spent in Wallkill since I began my tenancy. He finally left last night.

Part of his prolonged stay was due to the fact that he wanted to exercise his custody rights over the oldest Spawn. Dante dropped out of the University of Utah (I called it!) and had to be reenrolled at SUNY New Palz. New Paltz didn't start classes till the middle of last week.

Dante is not a bad kid. He's friendly, cheerful, & polite. Engaging, even. He's been diagnosed with ADHD and takes Adderall. But I often find myself wondering whether he has a neurodevelopmental disorder at all, or whether his lack of attention to the world around him isn't the psychological consequence of having a father who is so toxic that Dante's had to invest vast quantities of psychic energy into blocking that father out. There is no such thing as selective obliviousness at that age; kids can't compartmentalize. So Dante is oblivious to things he shouldn't be oblivious to.

Like he took out a good portion of the property's fence the other day by making an ill-considered turn onto the driveway, wreaking considerable & expensive damage to Icky's leased Chevy Equinox. Icky stayed past the start of New Paltz classes to argue with the Chevy dealer about that.

###

Speaking of driveways...

The storm is living up to its hype. Snow is coming down fast and furious. Before Icky left, I'd asked him to make arrangements with Brandi, the neighbor across the street, to plow the driveway once the storm was through (which I figured would be Monday around noon). I didn't get a straight answer about whether he had done so.

Icky texted me this morning: I would strongly suggest that you not wait for Brandi to try driving your car in and out of the driveway. I would try driving back and forth and clearing a path with the car before it gets too deep.

The snow on the driveway was already five inches deep at this point. I didn't see much point in trying to drive a path. It would be filled faster than I could drive it. But I am a marshmallow, so I figured, What the hell, and actually followed his suggestion—not once but twice.

The second time, the driveway snow was eight inches high, and I got stuck in it. It took me half an hour of frantic shoveling in 12° temperatures to inch my way back to the quasi-protection of the house.

Were u able to drive a path? Icky texted.

Kind of, I texted back. But I won't be able to do it again.

If you keep up with it you will be fine.

I don't think so. It's a 24 hour event. I'm not going to be driving my car up & down that hill in the dark.

Don’t rely on getting dug out if you can take proactive steps, Icky texted primly.

Excuse me? I AM relying on the driveway being plowed tomorrow, I texted. Can Brandi plow the driveway tomorrow after the snow is predicted to stop? If she can’t, let me know & I’ll find someone else. But the driveway WILL need to be plowed.

Whereupon Icky went beserk. Called me up and screamed at me over the phone! Called me vituperative names. Hung up on me.

WT-living-FUCK???

I stared at the phone for a second and then immediately called Christine, the Spawns' mother: "Christine, I need a reality check—"

She couldn't have been nicer.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," she said when I reported Icky's driveway-clearing plan. "You can't do that unless you have four-wheel drive. He's delusional."

About Icky's bizarre phone call: "It's not you. It's him. He's mentally ill. Borderline or bipolar or something. My advice? Make your own arrangements for getting plowed, do not depend on him. You don't have to answer his texts, you don't have to pick up the phone when he calls."

"I mean, I figured I wouldn't be able to get out of the house till tomorrow," I said. "Or maybe even Tuesday, so I don't get why..."

"Listen," Christine said. "You are a lovely person, and I am sorry you had to deal with that."

"It's like he's toxic character in a Stephen King novel!"

"I will be your lifeline," Christine said. "I have four-wheel drive. If you have to get out of the house for any reason, just give me a call. I will be right over."

Icky is even more insane than I realized.
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Snow-pocalypse minus 21 hours.

I have done all the prep work I can.

The arctic front swooped down yesterday, and it is currently 4°F—up from -2°F when I first woke up. Shortly, I will gird up & trek out to the chicken coop to lay down more straw for insulation. That's the only thing I can think of to do for the chicks. Then I will see if the Fluid Film has worked to keep my Prius doors from freezing shut.

The Catskills are supposed to be getting three feet of snow, which has got me so worried about real-life Mimi that I am seriously considering inviting her to come down here, where conditions are predicted to be marginally better. I don't actually like real-life Mimi, but I can't bear the thought of her isolated & helpless in all that snow.

Worth noting that the cost of natural gas, which many folk around here use for heating, has jumped by 63% in the past week. Never let it be said that price gaugers aren't lightning quick to skim a profit from human helplessness.

I'm debating heading to the gym. I am fairly certain this will be my last chance till Wednesday. The YMCA is in Middletown, & I'm such a wuss, I'm actually worried about breaking down on one of those remote country roads twixt here & Middletown, and freezing to death while waiting for Triple A, though I suppose that's unlikely.

###

Only wrote 500 words on the WiP yesterday. The coming storm has my mind on full skitter.

Chapter 5 has to do some heavy lifting: Debbie Reynolds dies of COVID in the ICU, Grazia has a psychological breakdown & goes off to stay with the New Millennium Kingdom cult, the creepy old New Millennium Kingdom mansion catches on fire, Neal rescues Grazia, and they have some kind of Deeply Meaningful Conversation on Neal's front porch—so I can segue back to the opening scene of the novel of the three sister wives on Neal's front porch.

My great friend Tom read the first four chapters of the manuscript. He thinks they're strong—but noted that there is a considerable difference in tone between the first chapter and the subsequent three chapters.

Of course, I knew that, too.

And had been thinking, In Draft 2, you'll tighten up that first chapter.

But now, I'm thinking, Hmmmmm... Maybe Chapter 1 frothiness could be a feature not a bug? Like if I could make the final passages of Chapter 5 equally frothy, it could be a wonderful, structural full-circle as well as a plot full circle.

Not sure I have the writing chops to pull that one off, but I'll give it a whirl.

Also, Chapter 6—which will be written from Daria's POV—has to contain much bickering with annoying Mimi.

###

In political news, here's a photograph of yesterday's Minneapolis protests:



Tens of thousands of people marching in sub-zero temperatures.

So inspiring.
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Justine finally emailed me, so I can take being snubbed off my list of grievances and give my full attention to the coming snow-pocalypse—which is now up to 18 inches in every forecast, predicted to be light, fluffy, Currier-and-Ives snow, which is better than ice because there is less chance the power grid will go down.

I nagged Icky to get driveway plowing lined up when the storm finally ends.

I'll still have to dig out my car, which will be a pain in the ass, but doable.

The storm should be manageable, so long as we're not looking at a prolonged interval where the power fails.

I told the kiskas they needed to draw lots to see which one of them I'm going to sacrifice to the Power Grid Gods. But they are ignoring me.

###

Other than that, got all my errands done yesterday. I am more likely to eat myself to death than to starve during the Coming Storm. Worked out very strenuously in an effort to exhaust all those Noradrenaline-secreting neurotransmitters! Came home, did a speed reread of Mary Lovell's The Mitford Girls and watched movies: Rental Family & Sentimental Value.

Rental Family is a very slight film, but it's about the social stand-in biz, a Japanese business model that deeply intrigues me. So I enjoyed it.

Sentimental Value is Ingmar Bergman for the 21st century a/k/a the Age of Infinite Content & Zero Attention Span. I kinda/sorta enjoyed it.

Tried to watch Marty Supreme & failed: I liked Uncut Gems a lot, so I was willing to forgo my strong, visceral aversion to Timothée Chalamet, whose head is so undersized for his body that he reminds me of those shrunken-head football players in the original Beetlejuice. But I just couldn't get into it.

The Mitford Girls is an unsatisfactory biography, but it's the only Mitford bio that's still in print. As previously noted, I am a huge Decca fan-girl, and I quite understand why Decca completely froze out the Hitler-loving Diana for 50 years. Mary Lovell does not. Mitford biographers in general seem to go very easy on Diana. Was it because she was so physically beautiful?



Dunno, but I fuckin' loathe her.

"How lovely it is to be lovely one," Diana once remarked, a comment her novelist sister Nancy promptly snagged & incorporated into The Pursuit of Love.

###

I did absolutely no useful work whatsoever yesterday.

But I should try to advance Chapter 5 today.
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Okay! Based on doomscrolling through myriad weather reports, I can confidently predict that we will be getting anywhere from 1 and 145 inches of snow starting on Sunday, that the electricity will go out while the outside temps hover at 10° F, that I will die of hypothermia in my own bed, and that the kiskas will nibble my corpse.

If there was anywhere to run to, I'd run.

But there isn't.

My only consolation is that they say hypothermia is a very peaceful way to die. After you get cold, you feel oddly serene, you grow sleepy.

###

Today, I'm gonna put together an emergency kit: two flashlights, batteries, fully charged phone, full charged power bank, three gallons of water (the well here is on an electric pump), non-perishable food items (peanut butter, canned tuna, Pepperidge Farm goldfish, etc), manual can opener, thyroid meds—what else?

Need to spray some kind of oil on my car door's weather stripping, too, to minimize the risk that those doors will freeze shut. Olive oil will actually work, but I think I'm gonna go to the auto parts store & get lanolin-based Fluid Film.

Also, I have to get a wireless keyboard similar to a desktop computer's clunky black keyboard. At this point, my main challenge with tax preparation is not tax law but data entry. I've watched Rose do three returns now; she keys in all the numbers using her right hand & the right numeric keyboard. This is something I have never done because I only use laptop models at home. Proficiency at this would double my efficiency.

###

On the Universe, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me? front: Justine & the collective house in Trumansburg resurfaced this week in a FB posting. I immediately private-messaged her: Still interested! Posted a public message: I PMed you, which she pinged with a pink love heart.

And then, last night, I noticed my public message had been deleted & somehow—I didn't even know you could do this!—my private message had been deleted.

I've been ghosted!

And that hurt my feelings terribly.

It is certainly your right to decide I am not a good fit for your collective. But why not just tell me? Why humiliate me by pretending that I don't exist?

Combined with my intense social isolation, financial worries, & the pending storm, this made for a stressful evening.

Resilience is the name of the game, & my mantra is ever, You do not live in Gaza, you do not live in sub-Saharan Africa, you do not live in...

But honestly, all this is hard.

This has been a very tough winter.

It will be better in the spring because it is always better in the spring.

###

In Work In Progress news, I'm 500 words into Chapter 5—phone conversation with Neal in which he chides Grazia for her growing intimacy with the New Millennium Kingdom cult and meditation on personal vs. impersonal friendships.

Next up, we must segue back to a Grazia/Debbie Reynolds convo where Debbie Reynolds talks about death, and then Debbie Reynolds appears in the ICU where Grazia takes care of her & she eventually dies. A thousand words? We'll see.
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We are in the midst of a severe solar storm, the magnitude of which has not been seen since 2003. The Aurora Borealis is supposed to be visible to the naked eye at my latitude, but I had to use the night settings on my iPhone camera to snap this:



And the Arctic blast is back. It is cold out. Very, very, very cold. Not supposed to rise above 18° F for the next three days.

###

As above, so below.

Trump is literally sundowning—a thing that happens to many people with dementia. They may seem coherent during the day, but at night, they lose it entirely, hence Trump's late-night social media posting mania: Considering your Country decided not to give me the Nobel Peace Prize for having stopped 8 Wars PLUS, I no longer feel an obligation to think purely of Peace!

The historical comparison is no longer strictly to Nazis anymore—though ICE is the Gestapo.

No, the historical comparison is more to Caligula.

Assuming human history continues past 10 years—to my mind, not a safe assumption at all—historians are going to be asking the same question over & over again, WHY didn't they DO something? He was so obviously insane.

Honestly, I do not know.

This is very, very difficult to live through.

Because, I mean, what do we do?

Ignore it? Keep living our lives as though it isn't happening?

There's a core of physical dread inside of me; I walk around, trying to ignore it, trying to maintain, but that's increasingly hard to do.

###

I have a bunch of errands to do today, plus the gym—bad weather has kept me away from the gym since Thursday last—but I have very little interest in doing them, very little interest in doing anything. Even parking myself in front of a screen & watching mindless television would not distract me from the mind monkey sitting on the Bodhi Tree's branch & chittering.

But ya gotta do what ya gotta do, so I guess I'll force myself to do those errands. As the I Ching reminds us: Perseverance furthers.
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I was planning to hit the gym & do a Big Shop this morning. But I had neglected to check the weather forecast.

And when I woke up this morning, Hideous White Stuff was falling from the sky! More is expected. Not a lot of inches, but "heavy banding" (ugh!), which will make driving perilous.

The prestidigitators had augured a break in the snowfall around 7am, so I made an expedition to the Hannaford's of the Living Dead at that early hour to pick up enough provisions to tide me over till Monday. I was a kind of parade marshal for a cavalcade of trucks, all of which wanted to be going 50 mph. The roads were unplowed: I wanted to go 30 mph. The truck drivers were not happy with me. FUCK 'em.

Don't think I'll be going to the transfer station or the gym today! It's snowing again.

###

I had a conversation with the Big Remuneration Client. We have no plans to wind down, Big Remuneration Client said, but acknowledged that they are indeed reprioritizing. So my anxiety on that front is not all PTSD. Big Remuneration Client asked me to give him "a little time" to respond to my concerns.

If I had to guess, I'd say I will continue working for the client. In fact, my responsibilities may even increase—I made the bold suggestion that he let me start picking my own topics for analysis.

But I could be entirely wrong about that, so (a) it's a good thing I have another revenue stream till mid-April and (b) I need to start looking at alternative revenue streams after that.

Retirement subsidies cover my basic expenses, but if I want to do anything beyond enjoying a roof over my head, using utilities, and eating, I need other sources of cash flow.

###

Chapter 5 of the WiP has to open with some pontifications on the nature of friendship.

Then I kill off Debbie Reynolds. Debbie Reynolds catches COVID (of course!), and ends up in the ICU, where Grazia is her nurse & so, has to code her. Code is a failure, Debbie Reynolds dies. This precipitates Grazia's full-scale breakdown; Grazia follows the flaxen-haired girl back to the decrepid decaying mansion where the cult shelters, spends a week doing Cult Things & eventually gets rescued by Neal, who nurses her back to health at his Catskills cottage during which they have some sort of Significant Conversation on Neal's porch—which Grazia then remembers as she is standing on the porch again with Flavia & Daria the day after Neal's memorial for that full-circle effect. End Part 1.

This means I have to start with some Grazia/Neal phone conversations during which Grazia describes the cult & Neal senses her developing attraction to it. Or else Neal won't know where to look when Grazia disappears.

I don't much feel like writing today.

I don't much feel like doing anything today.

But I'm gonna write anyway.
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In the lifetime I can remember, few events have been as subject to political reinterpretation as the incident on January 6, 2021, when 2,000 to 2,500 Trump supporters stormed the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C.

Was it a failed coup d'état?

Insurrection implies some degree of internal organization—and, indeed, pipe bombs were planted that day, too: one in a building containing Republican National Committee offices, another under a bush at the Democratic National Committee headquarters. Bipartisan pipe bombs!

The pipe bomber's case is still being adjudicated. The perp's lawyers claim he qualifies for the "full, complete and unconditional pardon to all other individuals convicted of offenses related to events that occurred at or near the United States Capitol on January 6, 2021" that Trump issued shortly after he regained office. The pipe bomber did believe the 2020 election was stolen. Still. There's no real evidence linking him to the flash mob, so the Justice Department is kinda on the hook over that one.

And I have a hard time believing that the flash mob members themselves were actual insurrectionists. They were just too stupid.

Regardless of my opinions, though, two years ago, the flash mob members were traitors. And now, they're heroes.

There's no such thing as history. There's just endless reediting of propaganda.

###

Meanwhile, temps, which have been hovering in the low 20°s, are projected to go up into the 40°s for the next week—and I am really excited about no more agonizing 10-point turns in the icy driveway!

I was all set to go to the gym yesterday, & then it started to snow, so I wimped out. The snow stopped after 10 minutes, but I remained wimped out. To atone for my wimpiness, I spent 90 minutes in the extreme cold solving the chickens' water situation. Will be dragging my sorry ass to the gym shortly.

Also, after three years, my FitBit battery no longer holds charge for more than 20 hours. I'm having to charge it daily, which is a drag-gg-ggg. Do I really need a FitBit? The damn thing doesn't do a great job tracking activity, since if you don't wave your arms during said activity, the activity won't register. Mostly, I use the Fitbit to monitor my sleep patterns, about which I am very neurotic. But does it do a good job with that? Who knows?

Augers

Jan. 2nd, 2026 11:33 am
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Crumwold Hall on fire in Hyde Park.

Crumwold Hall was built by Archibald Rogers, a minor railroad tycoon, in 1886, making it one of the few local Gilded Age mansions without a Livingston family connection. It's named for Crum Elbow Creek, which flows into the Hudson hereabouts.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor considered moving there once. FDR's mansion is right next door; he played there as a boy, and the soldiers assigned to protect him on his trips home during WWII were garrisoned there.

New York was not interested in adding Crumwold Hall to the state's portfolio of historic landmarks, so once the original doyenne croaked, the mansion passed from hand to hand, eventually ending up in the possession of an obscure religious cult called the Millennial Kingdom Family Church.

Belinda's house is part of the subdevelopment that was built on the original 5,000-acre estate, so I've often viewed the mansion from afar.

Here's what the mansion looked like in its prime:



Practically nothing is known about the Millennial Kingdom Family Church. They have a Facebook Page, but it hasn't been updated since 2015. Belinda thinks there couldn't have been more than 12 people living in the 75-room house. Their water had recently been turned off since they stopped paying their bill a year ago, which made the firefighters' job all the more difficult.

Anyway, I am thinking: Perfect! Grazia will join the Millennial Kingdom Family Church! And Neal will rescue her after the building catches on fire!

###

Shortly, I must gird up and hike out to check in on the chickens. Their coop is about 500 feet from the house. Icky rigged up a network of extension cords to power their fountain, but that grid has failed, and the water in their fountain is frozen solid, so I have been trekking in every day with bowls of fresh water, hoping this will keep them from dying of thirst.

I tested the outlets with my phone charger: The extension cord relay is charging at its source in the basement, but not at its destination at the coop.

The culprit is likely a dead extension cord segment, currently buried under eight inches of snow.

Fond though I am of the chickens, the prospect of spending half an hour narrowing down the dead extension cord does not attract: It is 20° out there with a "real feel" of 8° 'cause there's wind raising mini-snow squalls.

Maybe when the temps rise back to seasonal (supposedly Tuesday).

###

Frigid temperatures also kept me from my New Year's Day plan: a vigorous tromp across the Walkway!

I have this superstition that the way you spend New Year's Day is a template for how you are going to spend the year, so naturally, I wanted to fill my New Year's Day with as many wholesome activities as possible!

But an hour and a half in the cold?? With Hideous White Stuff all around me?

No, thank you!

I did remain happy & occupied all day long, reading, delighting, communicating with friends. So, perhaps that will be the auger. Had a marathon phone conversation with my pal Tom in Michigan that was quite entertaining.

Didn't do a single scrap of useful work, though. And didn't exercise.

Those would be unfortunate augers.

Off to the gym as soon as I deal with the chickens.

Slush

Dec. 29th, 2025 07:21 pm
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Temps rose just high enough last night so that snow turned to freezing rain.

Morning came. The rain continued to fall, the temps continued to rise.

By noon, the driveway was coated in three inches of slush.

So, this afternoon, I spent two and a half hours shoveling slush. And another hour sprinkling 50 pounds of rock salt along the layer of brittle ice (impervious to shovels) that had formed on top of the frozen ground.

Hey! It's a long driveway, & fuckin' Icky—who just bought a Tesla—is too cheap to spring for asphalt. Once upon a time, the driveway was a gravel track, but now it's kind of a drove road (thank you, [personal profile] puddleshark!) Temperatures are going to plummet back down again tonight. And I don't want to have to deal with a skating rink whenever I drive the car home.

Slush is heavy, & it was a lot of work. Thank God, I've been going to the gym! Even so, I'm gonna feel it tomorrow.

I suppose I should congratulate myself on being physically up to the task.

But instead, I blamed myself for not being able to outsource. I'm flush for the moment & would cheerfully have hired someone—but who do you hire? This ain't plowing. Inherently lazy, I guess. C'est moi.

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