Day 13. Big snow overnight. Winter is still very much here. Sure the sky is brighter, the day is longer but 14 cm overnight is the leading indicator. The keys are still in the hands of old man winter and he’s not going to hand them over anytime soon. He’s behind the plow, high on bennies, hasn’t slept since Christ was a cowboy.
We got through the holiday weekend. It was Chinese New Year, Valentines Day, Family Day and the last day of lockdown. Today we’ve moved out of the Grey and into the Red Zone, which of course means absolutely nothing to me. I’m measuring my time now in years not months as is, “it was about this time last year, just before Chinese New Years, that I last went out for coffee.”
I’m waiting. Waiting is easy for me. I’ve got a stack of books that I am slowly reading through, reviewing some old rodeo stories, a book on how to remember Chinese characters, an old notebook that I revisit self-indulgently one page or two a day. I am my very best audience, though sometimes I heckle out loud or more notably scribble in the margins. It’s my story. I can revise it all I want.
And waiting is easy for me. I’ve never had a hard time filling time, not that I am filling much of it usefully. I’ve waited in airports and on ferry piers. I’ve waited in lobbies, hotels and businesses. I’ve waited on beaches, in bars and coffeeshops. Once I waited a week in Macao for a resident visa for Taiwan where I wandered around looking at the architecture and tourists in front of the Mater Dei.
Like a financial statement from an investment firm, I return again and again to the same themes, use the same fonts and measure growth with the same numbers and graphs. But that’s ok. I like the continuity.