For the sake of those not here: the snows fell today in great, scandalous clumps, mostly on the diagonal and I'm fairly impressed with Michael for handling it on the roads. We rounded up the Good Little Children in the Big Green Van of Death much like Big Man Odin gathers up his baby Valkyries before the final cymbal-crash. We rounded them up at various velocities (someone almost had to match speeds with the van to get in it because of the slide) and then trucked over to James Bay for the purposes of eating, because it was Sunday today and on Sunday we brunch (both verb and noun, thank you).
We went to Cafe Mulatta and chattered with the waitress who recognized Michael and I because we've made a bit of a habit of going there for breakfasts and she also was friends-of-friends connected to Penny, who was out with us. I begged off the Belgian waffles for once to eat scrambled eggs with brie, avocado, and red peppers; pan fries and fruit on the side. Afterward, Michael and I ordered slices of pie for dessert because let's face it, I've always preferred to eat as if it was the last meal I'd ever had.
After that I came home and sat in my warm apartment while the clumpy snow dolloped down upon the Earth like - well, let's face it - some diseased parody of Ansel Adams. I've never been fond of Ansel Adams, he's why I left Prince George.
I managed to get some work done earlier, and I'm going to make another push right now before I go to bed. I'm writing through one of the bad spells, when I'm not sure if I want to continue the novel or if it's too flawed for its own good, and what the subtext of it is, what the unconscious developments are. Partly I'm bored with the section I'm writing and partly I'm uncomfortable with some of the subject matter. But this is what it's about: the uncomfortable stretches, the awkward bits, the dirt and grit and shit. It's a horror story and it's got to be about the things I don't like. Discomfort will crop up.