As of tonight, I have completed one-third of my synthesis paper. I am trying not to hate everything I have written, or to think about how much I still have to write, or to worry about how little time is left. I am trying to feel good about making it this far. Scotch helps.
I spent some time today re-reading the introduction to Glenn Gould’s radio play, “The Idea of North.” He writes:
[T]here are probably people living in the heart of Manhattan who can manage every bit as independent and hermitlike an existence as a prospector tramping the sort of lichen-covered tundra that A.Y. Jackson was so fond of painting north of Great Bear Lake.
If not in Manhattan, then certainly in Montreal.
There is sun behind a thin husk of clouds, which is the first I’ve seen in days. I’d take a walk, which my legs are aching to do, but it is much too cold. I suppose I could bundle up, but it wouldn’t be quite the same.
I think about my bicycle, which is encased in two feet of glassy snow. A car crunches past my living room window.
I wonder how many pages I’ll manage to write tomorrow?