I have to lift my ride over the flood-warning gates, watch for root snags and ice in the dirt that could chute me into the green water. January bites bleak and hard and when Night walks out I hide away with Chekhov and Sontag. She writes of ways of seeing, the mind as a theatre space with its own pictures, sounds and pasteboard scenery. The last thing I really enjoyed was staging my Minos hour, I want another. That moment as the words are said is special, alive and unrepeatable. I must chisel away at the January frost and make things happen.