It was incredibly foggy this morning, which surprised me a bit, and a little icy on the ground, which actually surprised me a bit more. I guess it warmed up just enough for yesterday’s rain, then cooled down just enough to slick the sidewalks in invisible ice.

It seemed to be gone this evening, though the fog had rolled back in. Not quite ghost pirate weather, but somewhere in the neighborhood. Frankly, a part of me just wishes winter would let itself be winter again. (This obviously is not the part of me that just a week ago though the earth was trying to kill him with cold.)

Meanwhile, January, or at least this week of it, has marked the return of Year of the Meeting at work. Busy times that aren’t likely to let up until the spring, or at least until I get a few of these books handed over to production.

But I finished the report I’ve been working on, the one that ate up several hours of my weekend, so that’s good.

I also finished reading Jonathan Carroll’s The Bones of the Moon, which was odd in all the sorts of ways you expect a Jonathan Carroll novel to be. I don’t know that I loved it, necessarily, but I found a lot in that I really liked, these (spoiler-free) passages included:

Sometimes dreams bite like fleas and leave little itchy bumps all over your skin.

We want to be loved for what we are, but also for what we want others to think we are.

Our actions and responsibilities are our own: what later returns to either haunt or applaud us is neither possible to predict nor always completely understandable.

How far was a dream allowed to trespass into real life, before it was caught and sent back to its proper place? Could it go haywire and take over everything you knew? Was it permitted to live wherever it wanted? Or had I reached a point where laws and distinctions, rules of the game, had disappeared? A point where everything in my mind, in my life, was up for grabs?

It’s hard convincing yourself that where you are at the moment is your home, an it’s not always where your heart is.

And that’s that.