Multiple days in my father's company and the lull of timeless days leaves me wordless, unwilling to write. I sleep late and stay up later, daylight and I at almost constant odds, nurturing the nightchild who lurks within and feeds on the still quiet hours before dawn, fighting sleep. She is an old friend, that one.

I am at my father's apartment. It is bachelor pad-ish, with a mishmash of dulled old furnishings and a scattering of nice antiques and quality goods. Oswego assults me with its lifelong familiarity and the bitter winds off the lake. In January, even the river is treacherous and whitecapped. The lake is a force of beauty.

It is colder, but the snow has already melted. The world seems stuck in a perpetual March, with its sodden ground and browned grass and naked trees, but the sky today was irrefutably November; thick, hard-edged clouds backlit by the distant winter sun casting its feeble shine. I thought of the damp rebirth of April, the bright clear skies of June, the wild colors of July in the fields. I am a firm believer in the necessity of winter, the study of contrasts, the nature of appreciation; as with everything, joy follows sorrow, light follows dark. It will be summer again, soon enough, and I will drive away from this city. I will be reborn.

My father and I saw Lord of the Rings. I enjoyed it, though I have no wish to rave. I wish I'd known that the movie was only of the first of the three books; as it was, the ending was rather unsatisfying. I don't want to wait however many years for the other two. I'm an instant-gratification girl, yes indeedy.

I was probably the only person in the audience delighting in the movie's utter slashiness, though. But, but. Elijah Wood and Viggo Mortensen were just so very made for each other. The movie was full of pretty people, that's for sure. Cate Blanchett was exquisite.

More to write, another day.