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10 January 99
Sunday |
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In the kitchen, writing at the table, I can feel the bitter cold seeping into the house through the closed back door. But, surprisingly, the January sun is bright enough for summer. I am thinking of going for a long walk... I came across the poem in an X-Files story titled Chains written by Kipler. She is an excellent writer-- her plots are intelligent, the characters behave as they should-- and she's a New Englander. She tells an engaging tale, and has the gift of capturing the very essence of New England settings. Reading her stories is a good way to pass a cold winter evening. The wind is blowing. I must remember to prop a chair against the back door before I go out so it won't blow open. One must have a mind of winter... I do. And I have been cold a very long time. I've been away from this journal for a while now. I'm not sure why. It isn't that I don't write, but... I don't know. What is worth writing down? Later: Like Billy Pilgrim, The X-Files seems to have broken loose of the time stream. Last week (Terms of Endearment with Bruce Campbell) it was fall again, and this week (The Rain King with Victoria Jackson) six months past Valentine's Day. I admit the episodes were entertaining, but there's no integration with the series timeline which would allow me to place the episodes in some sort of context. That bugs me.
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