10.59  I am not reading Cortazar. I may be too tired to read Cortazar. This is a terrible pity. But I am keeping company with Mme Agnes Varda this late evening. And I may spend the rest of my life reading that Cortazar book. It’s the kind of piece it is. There’s a lovely biting cold in the wind this night. Sharp. The temperature has dipped and the daytime highs are daytime lows. I like it when the high becomes a low. The variety keeps me pondering. Plus there have been some good old gusts. The other night I woke in the middle of a moderate storm, but it being moderate failed to keep me awake, which is very unusual for a committed storm stirrer.