november cold
It is getting cold, with that dreary, fatiguing November cold. I am never myself in November, not until the snow comes and shrouds the cold in soft. I was walking home yesterday night and it was raining, and I ducked into Paul’s bookstore with my dripping umbrella and dreary head. The lights were warm and ferocious, so I felt okay for a while. I studied an antique French cookbook.
A poet friend of mine just wrote in a poem quoting Beethoven, “Only the pure in heart can make a good soup.” I stuck my head into the back room and told Paul I couldn’t make good soup. He kind of shrugged, uninterested, so I walked home in the rain and told Martin instead. Walking in the November cold, it had started to really bother me, one of those things that only matters because you’re kind of miserable. Martin said he thought I was okay because I could make soup, if I tried to learn; I just hadn’t yet. I sat cross-legged on the counter and said I was still worried. Martin said I shouldn’t be. I said I hoped the snow would come soon. Martin looked at me curiously and turned on a few more lights.