It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight.  The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward.  Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.  It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves…It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.  His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.~James Joyce, “The Dead”

Here, it’s falling fast, in morning, over the cars and grass, swirling in two directions.  The flakes dance their way down, spinning.  It’s a light snow, or was, for now it’s the next day, and it’s stopped at last.  It fell for two days.  The ground is sparkling now with snow and sun.  Why do these lines sound so cheesy?  Is it because they follow Joyce, who really wrote about snow?

wellfleet beach by shridar ganesan

A young man just walked by with a cellphone at his ear.  I will not discuss the attachment of cellphones to nearly every one’s ear in public.  I keep mine in my bag, and it rings at inappropriate times such as during class.  Then it rings to tell me I missed that call.  The after- ring.  Still, I will not talk about cellphones.

I’ve been thinking about Provincetown again.  Maybe because I associate with my work, and I’m working again, on a new novel.  Today’s weather reminds me in part of Provincetown, the grey with lighter grey in the sky, the hushed sound.  Can I imagine the roar of the see as I hear a car in the distance?  Above, Wellfleet.  Perhaps I’ll move back, or back to Sag Harbor.  In one year, I’ll be back on the job search, although how nice it is to think of just writing, with a little half-time position somewhere to give me structure.

Yesterday my cousin’s daughter got married, and I imagined the bright silk saris and some of the ceremony.  I even went on-line to see if I could find images of south Indian wedding ceremonies, to somehow vicariously take part.  In a month, I will receive pictures–more likely, downloads on the computer.

Hasn’t begun to rain.  Other people write about world events–I track the weather.

Already February.  The Kripalu website says February can often seem like the longest month.  Perhaps that’s true, with the dark, but I always think it goes very quickly.  It’s one of my favorite months actually; sometimes there’s a false spring. It’s a good month to burrow and be quiet with yourself.  I’m reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf for a class I teach.  I’m struck again by her prose, her elegance.  I discovered a website (woolfonline.com) that offers reproductions of her handwritten drafts, as well as an outline.  I’m so taken that she outlined.  It gives all us writers courage I think.  Reading Woolf makes my own work progress.  The only other writer who has that effect on me is Carole Maso.  The Two Muses.  Alongside Woolf, I’m reading the delicious The Hours by Michael Cunningham.  It’s taken me this long.  I started it when it came out, then just put it away until yesterday.  Of course he makes me think, why didn’t I think of that for a structure?!  Well, I didn’t.

On another note, I finally found out who Lady Gaga is. On You Tube, there’s a video of her singing with Elton John.  The end of their duet is very sweet as they both pay homage to one another, especially she.  When she performed by herself, I kept waiting for Madonna to walk out of the wings and join her.  I know so little about current music. I think I entered a dark hole in the mid-1990’s.

Happy birthday to Subashree!

image from freeimages.uk