yes, try as i might, i cannot leave new york behind.
my new neighbour, jean paul, just walked into my little tower, holding some leonard cohen under his arm, coffee in hand. when i warned him about the floral housecoat currently clothing my fella, he told me i was lucky he had on any clothes at all. we have ended up here. but my head, and oh lordy my heart, keep finding their way back there.

so it is with renewed vigour that i take up this journal. to put myself here. in this most magical and enchanted of spaces.

jean paul on his way, i sit here listening to the clock tick and the gentle background creaks of the wood stove, the occasional crackle of wood popping, of the room itself, settling in against the damp outside. i see a winter stretched in front of the stove, cookbooks in arms reach, and water on the boil for endless cups of tea.

the house lets me see this because it is so thoughtful.
everything here is just so. not in a twee way, in spite of the shingles and gingerbread curves. its the small details. there is no superfluous lighting. just soft globes illuminating all the right spaces. one for the table centre. one for the chopping block. several to light your way through the garden once the four o'clock dark arrives. there are candles for windstorm blackouts and matches to light the fire.

it is a thoughtful house, and here now, i find myself full of thoughts.