I’m quoting Roz Chast’s bleak advent calendar for this darkest of all months: January 22, “Still January.” It is one of the few months that I want to pass quickly, though it never does.
Dark mornings, the sun not rising until I’m on the train. Afternoons never mustering real heat or light, dimming by four, dark again by 5. Wind slicing through the streets of lower Manhattan. Snow, rain, ice. Maybe it’s because of a cold coming on; maybe it’s the cleanse and I’m actually a boring person without wine. But I’ve felt little inspiration to think, let alone write. Oh January, you’re the worst.