winter fires

There's something primitive and satisfying about putting on the heater in the early hours of a winter morning. Is this a deep ritual from our ancient past?

Driving along the Canal yesterday, late in the afternoon; the green, opaque water slowly moving down, as if it had suddenly become more reflective, cautious, this last month. It carried with it a few twigs and dry leaves. It seemed as if no-one even recognized its existence.On the way back, a delightful scene of lots of small, ankle-high fires in the grass. The gold vivifying the green. Each fire unique and yet, somehow, mystically tied to the other.

'You realize I attach great importance to the human voice, more than to what is written, for what is written does not contain my voice'

At Canal View you notice that the woman has a very distinctive face, very tender, tinged with some sort of sadness. She folds her arms. Has strange cheekbones. There's something 'western' about her. Not her accent or even the way she carries her hair (which is always a dead give away). 'You always pick out such things,' I'm told. Yes, that's true, I always like to see gold in the straw, wonder what history a face has? God, I can't stand mirrors any more.

There's no betrayal like the human voice.
---Richard Ford.