It makes lovely white noise, quite literally, as the lovely folks at TWC talk about the NorEaster that’s about to hit the north. I sit here, typing along on my novel, wishing that I lived somewhere like, um WYOMING! Someplace with dramatic, interesting weather, where I might live a whole other kind of life. I could be a skier or a snowboard queen, or perhaps spend Saturdays ice skating. Not that I can’t learn those things on my occasional trips to colder climes, but the chances of coming a killer ski bunny are pretty slim at this stage in my life.
What if I’d been like this (not my child, but quite probably the youngest little person I saw skiing out in Wyoming—the instructor has her on a leash so she won’t slide away!)
Today I might be like this:
Anyway, white noise. It’s a good thing when writing all weekend because it keeps the slightly weird, antisocial vibe from taking over too completely. So I find that listening to the bland, processed jazz of TWC has a kind of appeal. The local on the 8’s keeps you vaguely aware of time passing. You can pause and study the map of various US quadrants. All good.
The other day I was studying this favorite channel of mine, hoping against absolute hope for some snow and Jud walked through the kitchen and announced, “You can stare at that thing as long as you want, but they’re still not going to give you snow.”
He knows me just too well.
Processed jazz. Local on the 8’s. And maybe someday…oh, a little snow.