I have been paralyzed with cold. The boilers in my building ceased to function and had to be replaced. We've been without heat in the apartments for over ten days. New boilers were installed, and had to be tested and now they are slowly bringing on the heat. My apartment is up to 12 degrees Celsius this morning, not warm enough for a sedentary person like me. I've been layering on the clothes: sweaters, shawls, blankets, and those nice little wristlets a friend knit for me. (You know who you are.) It has been such an effort trying to be warm that I didn't seem to have enough energy to write a blog. That made me think about our ancestors and how they managed to create.in cold weather. Well, the creators could read and write and that meant they could afford not only an education but a good fireplace and servants to keep the fires going. There are too many of us now, middle- (or lower-) class people who are educated and creative but who have to build their own fires.
At what temperature does a trained brain write well? If overcome by torpor in tropical heat, the brain gets sticky and doesn't function speedily. If stiff in sympathy with the rigour of one's chilled body, poor brain also doesn't function so well. We are trapped in the temples of our bodies. I guess if I were more disciplined, I'd have managed to create more than a great soup, but I wasn't and didn't. Instead I got depressed in direct proportion to my lethargy, not fit to be tied to a cold computer.
The darn thing is I can't complain. When I think of the icy rescuers at L'Isle Verte trying to dig the bodies out the thick ice formed from the water in the fire hoses, I am totally aware that my discomfort is merely that, neither life-threatening nor permanently damaging. I am alive and well and sort of grateful, though still shivering. If only I could feel sorry for myself.