Written in the small hours of February fifteenth, it is plausible to say that it is, it was, minus five outside tonight, with a wind chill of some six degrees or so.
Earlier on Saturday I set a fire, made coffee with hot milk and read underneath the dim energy saving bulbs. Half expecting my housemate to be back, I tidied around a little and put some clean plates back into the freezing cupboard. In the cupboard I found an opened bottle of sweet white wine. I poured a glass and drank it swiftly before pouring another. I drank and I split Turkish sunflower seeds and I read for an hour or two. Then I got up, slid the pile of husks off the plate into the stove fire and walked upstairs to write.
A footnote is needed to my earlier readings and writings around Kis. Perhaps this is it. The destinies he draws, specifically the plight of Hungarian Jews, specifically the extraordinary destinies held by Jewish men and women during the 1940's, are so all-encapsulating that I almost need to retrieve my writing back from the brink, I need to return my words back to me with something completely mundane. Without this process of back and forth (the sacred and the mundane I shall perhaps call it), there is no chance for me to write again and this weblog stops here. Is the mundane the same as the everyday in this instance? Is a course towards boredom, towards a dull daily journaling the only answer to what has gone before, both in terms of literature and disaster?
Genuinely, I hope so; there is no negativity attached here. My inane recollections about the weather or wintry skies, serve a serious purpose in the face of allowing my real writing, that which is never displayed here, to actually become a process of engagement with content and subject rather that form. But enough, stop here. This vagueness indicates exactly the thing I am trying to avoid. Back to the mundane, the safe platform of the everyday. The everyday contains not stories and so we can write of it, in it, for it, with perfect impunity.