cold_feet raze every glass tube wicked with mercury must be bearing false witness today. it's supposed to be seventy degrees and humid outside, and warmer than that in here, and my feet still feel like blocks of ice. a feather frees itself from the crowded cloth that cushions my head. for a minute i can almost believe it came from me. but it's too pretty to be a piece of my plumage. blow it away. 220606 ... epitome of incomprehensibility I came to Aunt Sarah's house in Arden yesterday. It'd seem silly to put the heat on in August, but it felt like 10 degrees last night. When she was putting one of her heating contraptions, a sausage-like cloth blobs, in the stove to warm her feet in bed, I was all, "Oh yes, well, I don't think I need one." But. I learned a lesson I'd apparently forgotten over the summer: if I have cold feet it's near-impossible for me to sleep. I tried rubbing them. Curling up. Rummaging in the drawer for extra blankets (I found a pillow first and had a hell of a time shoving it back in). Plus I'm at the tail end of a cold - cold feet from Wet_Debby apparently weakening my immune system in the first place. Eventually I found another blanket, put on my hoodie for good measure, and eventually the warmth spread to my legs. So I appreciate more the scene in Cora Sandel's Alberta_and_Jacob where Alberta, in northern Norway, lies awake for an hour or more in the winter waiting for her feet to finally finally warm up. I love these people - my aunt and her son and his girlfriend, not the Norwegian author - but. But! You can be "crunchy" in the sense of crunchy_etymology and still close the downstairs windows once in a while. But yeah, I should have accepted the hot cloth-sausage thing. 240821 what's it to you? who go blather from