I found a spot in Del Ray, Alexandria, and am in the process of moving my things. I've been working hard, but remotely, and it's a strange adjustment to be at home surrounded by windows reflecting a yard full of snow as my colleagues e-mail me from three hours in the past in sunny California.

On my nightstand in the basement of Maria's parent's house are three books:

The Black Jacobins by CLR James Submission by Michel Houellebecq Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen

The only book I've finished this year is Murakami's 1Q84, which has a fantastic excerpt of Out of Africa in it. Which is how that ended up on the shelf.

Winter is a strange adjustment.

Back in San Rafael, I could go walk around lazily bored, not having to talk to anyone all day. In my birkenstocks, shorts. Get a haircut, drive out to the headlands or to a small beach just south of Mt. Tamalpais.

But this is Virginia, and in keeping with my experience in Charlottesville, it's cold and I dwell in a basement, under others, in love.

Writing is a form of winter for the soul

I wrote that in a bad poem ages ago.