Coming into focus

A slow day. The waking out of very quiet sleep (unusual for me; I sleep like a twitchy sentry) to snow on trees and three messages on the answering machine. I'd turned my phone off.

The cat is in full-throated Feed Me Now mode. It's 1:40pm.

I wander around, making coffee (Peruvian - okay, but I preferred the Nicaraguan I had in the last batch - it was sharper), calling people back. Yes, I'm alive, sorry I missed brunch.

My brother and I are meeting at the Met tomorrow. I like the Met, even though I instinctively feel a bit claustrophobic and wrong there. It hasn't nearly enough exits for my taste.

But it reminds me of that movie, where the two teenagers get trapped in a museum overnight and get to sleep in that fancy 17th century bed. I always wanted to have sex in that bed - not the one in the movie, the real one in the Met. Boywich and I used to talk about it. Our first date was at the Met, in fact, and I remember him translating inscriptions in Ancient Greek.

I also remember getting turned on by the armor.

I know, I am fucking weird. But it's a perfect storm for me - anatomically correct, made for individuals who really walked the earth and fought wearing it. And I always have that feeling that I might just as well be one of them. So weird to be a woman, so unfamiliar.

I love my carbon-knuckle gloves because they feel like gauntlets, and I only just realized that that's what they remind me of. A familiar feeling. Bikes resemble horses, and the carbon knucks are gauntlets. Where is my fucking sword, anyway?

The roads are terrible today, uncleared, and I had a vision of what that bridge would be like, and I think I'm going for a walk instead. I hate walking. Slow and unpoetic and not me. Except in woods. Then it's good - the scrambling over roots and leaping of logs.