No hobbies here

This afternoon it's snowing over a layer of old snow. The new white snow reveals the texture of the old greyed snow as it half covers it. No one in my house has gotten dressed yet and it may never happen. I can't think why it should. Outside looks admirable from a safe distance only. Outside is issuing no invitations today. Mostly I've been just reading books here in our little house, for days actually, hardly has mattered what they were.

At some point though I had to come downstairs and write a clerkmanifesto. It's my job. Although, I must admit it doesn't pay anything. And no one ever asked me to do this, even if some people are quite nice about it. But, I mean, I've been doing it for five years, every day. That's a job, right?

One of those books I'm reading, hiding out from winter, is a memoir by Neil Young. It says "Our music is not a job. It's a way of life." 

Fine, that too.