came accross some notes (written on pink paper) on the weather in Providence while going through boxes today in Oakland

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Today is a strange weather day. Quick alternations between sunny warm skies and a forceful wind, along with a diagonal rain. Right now is the wind part, a day that hasn't been able to make up its mind.

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To say that I've been overwhelmed would be a true statement. Any color looks good, writing on pink paper. Not so much fun as different...fun as difference? The chimney clicks with its usual sounds.

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Dreamed last night but don't know what. Laid awake for a while trying to resolve the meeting F. and I had, walking away due to time constraints, or lack of anything to talk about asides from gossip, a billion other people to talk about.

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But I'm not interested in my own thoughts. I met with F. and read a list of things that bothered me, in the past tense, as there was nothing bothering me at that moment. Met G. for pool last night.

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Questions asked, brief synopsis shared. Now it seems like it could snow. Rory asked how it was outside and I responded "nice". F. asked what I had read and recently loved. I responded that I "don't generally love reading". A poor thing to say to the director of a writing program. Have been completely self-absorbed last few months and know it.

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Now it is snowing. Large white flakes going in all directions, confusing and chaotic but full of possibilities like a hat blowing off your head and landing on somebody else's head. Or snow blowing in your ear.

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Things were also said. He spoke of his recent difficulties of not having written for the last couple years. I wonder why? Time, it seems doesn't limit writing, just changes it. There must be something else going on, I think and would like to ask him.

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Phone call. The large snow wads are now blowing horizontally. I've realized that no one will ever read these notebooks. But still the hand writing remains consistent, the sounds of a mid-sized city just outside my window.

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Read from a chapbook by Liz yesterday and it moved me a in good way, how occasionally we find the right thing, or poem or person at the right moment and things make sense. I for one believe in misunderstanding until a certain point in time where understanding comes suddenly and without warning.