Diary

Can I peel this orange from the top?

Did it snow that much last night?

What are all these tiny birds doing around here?

A small table on the mezzanine; to my right, an air duct blasting heat.

I picked up a Kubrick (the new biography by Kolker and Abrams); had a chance to start a conversation with the bookstore cashier, fumbled it.

Danger: low bandwidth.

They serve a “Spanish late” at the cafe on Fourth Avenue; it’s tasty; I guess they use cinnamon.

I’m reading the headlines: the low-level conflict between Hezbollah and Israel seems to have reached a turning point: for the last couple of months, H’s calculus was that it was more likely to get a ceasefire by not escalating; perhaps they no longer think that’s the case — or perhaps the ruling far-right Israeli government wants to strike preemptively to buy itself more time to reinforce its hold on state power; it wouldn’t be the first time vis-a-vis Lebanon.

Also in the news (and reinforced by the anecdotes I’ve overheard): younger generations don’t have the form of attention for narrative coherence. They don’t read novels in school, only excerpts. What am I writing for, if the future may not even have the linguistic wherewithal to take in this medium? And how will we teach socialist theory?

Brooklyn, or at least my part of it, isn’t exactly a place for enjoying the snow outdoors.

A faucet pouring into a brimming basin, the pile of drying dishes on the left, and a mixing bowl resting on a wooden cutting board on the right, and shrubbery and sunlight in the square window.

After thirty years of living, today I learned that Lunar New Year is a two-week affair with specific activities assigned to each day.