January 7

Some time since I've made a point of pausing. After the snow, a relentless rain from which we are only now beginning to break, the muted intimation of sun slung low past all seeing, something felt. I feel brow beaten, some dark hand tamping us down that finally is giving. Had I been productive with my time, I'd feel better about it, but as it stands, I slip into an easy sloth each evening, a habit I'll need to break.

& Orcas, this peculiar place. This peculiar version of my life. This peculiar job I have. I am interested, daily, to watch the motions of my living, to see which implements I employ & in what regard, what small dreams flood my mind when idle or what excitations spur it into activity. Odd to blend this quiet hushed existence with its capacity for wonder, but here I am, & there the ocean, & there the islands tossed across it, turtlebacks obsidian-black in a distance.

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