Wintertime 

"Just a dash of Vodka" I say "into the batter" " it will make your pancakes zingy". The morning light in the winter countryside is of a dull hue. A terrible mist has hung over us for three days. It affects the brain, dead in the night, struggling to find inspiration.

The tangerines are well represented in the dark blue bowl. " Whats going on with those Canadian Queens on Netflix?" " An exaggeration of the female principle" he answers and I guess he is right. They are not really anything to do with my experience of been a woman. I feel more like a man who happens to have vagina.

The seascape beckons and so does my score. De profundis: Its going well despite having the mother fucker of a cold, not Covid. "Haven't you noticed how new opera has become more and more obsessed with spectacle" he says. And again he is right, leaving space for the imagination is too daring. All the cracks must be filled in. But it is the cracks that allow the inspiration to shine through as Leonard Cohen would say.

The little birds chirp in the yellow flowering bush outside. Its cheery to hear their song in this winter dullness when all is asleep except for the virus which rampages. I will compose, then walk , then relax with a glass of wine by the fire.