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Nearly dark at 4:20 today. Even before that, the light was dull, mute as a headache. Everything flattened like a bad print, the contrast too low.

Listened to Philip Pullman being interviewed on the CBC Writers & Company podcast today. It made me wonder why I hadn't read the books yet. My listening is perforce fragmentary, because I keep getting called away, and rather than always pause it, I let the conversation continue. I like joining and leaving it, like something overheard.

I'm glad I was listening when he mentioned Heinrich Von Kleist's essay "On the Marionette Theatre".

The temperature has dropped noticeably in the last few hours. I invite it to snow, but the roads must be dry by the weekend so that the winding country road to Bee's mum's pottery show is clear.

November in the soft grey cottonmouth of the snake. Sharp-scaled tail flickering, scratches your cheek, the underside of your wrist, your neck below the ear, with cold. Soon now the year swallowing its tail & we'll go with it.

I'm about ready to have this month extracted.

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