It's cold in November.

Really cold. Ah, hell: it's fucking freezing. Summer was amazing, and fall was beautiful, but since Halloween we've had to look at the tapestries differently--among other things. They're beautiful, they'd sell for a lot of money, but they're also warm. Bart drove through the other day on his way out west and dropped off some sweatshirts, a few bags of pretzels, candles and matches, spare wicks, some beef jerky... his generosity is something else, really. Unbelievable. Skiznip got drunk and peed the words "HOT DAMN! WE LOV BORT!" into the snowdrift by the west gate. If we've got the noder-hours to spare, we're sending an ambassador or maybe a convoy out to HOT DAMN 10. That's if the tapestries are still in a condition to be sold. Maybe we could sell stuff to the OSU kids in Columbus... but again: if we've got it.

Once Bart was gone, we huddled around the fire again. The maple grove is still pretty big. We'll have enough fire this winter, as long as we don't over-harvest.

We were supposed to have power and water hooked up by October, but Igloowhite thinks the county is malingering--he snuck into a town council meeting dressed like a local and asked what they planned to do. They said we were none of their concern. Redneck fuckers... after the festival this summer, they just turn their back, like we're gypsy hippies or something.

We're lucky we've got drugs. Not pot. Well, yeah, the pot's nice. But the flu medicine means that most of us can keep working through the bug that's going around. We've needed more water to keep everyone hydrated with the vomiting, and there was some tension when we thought it was food poisoning--ideath stuck up for the newbies who were learning to cook, and soon enough the bug spread, and she was vindicated. We all circled around the fire at the meeting and apologized to her, and someone said she should get the last beer. We drank a toast to her with water. Someone's going to need to make a town run as soon as we make a few more sales. Solstice was cold, but the celebration kept us warm. Newlyweds talk about living on nothing but love. We're close to that now. I'd rather have a little more chicken. Christmas is tomorrow, but we're partied out... and tired. Dann is having a sunrise service for anyone who wants to mark the holiday. Some of the younger noders' parents might send presents--then I'll mark the holiday.

jessicapierce sent brownies and cookies and a really good novel. Random House is publishing it in March. We're taking turns reading aloud from it over meals.

January's here, and still no power from the county. We sold some hardware and bought a diesel generator, set it up in the blue house we hold meetings in, ran dryer hose from the exhaust right out through the wall. Space heaters! One of the stoners who's good with pipes figured out a way to use the heat in the exhaust to warm up a tank of water before we expel it to the atmosphere; jethro bodine did some napkin-math and agreed that it would work, so the two of them built it. We check the nodes on the computer after dinner--free AOL disks are still keeping us connected!--and whoever's earned the most XP each day gets to decide who gets the first hot-water foot soak. At least one of us posts a daylog every day.

In addition to "Butterfinger McFlurry," we're now all forbidden from saying the words "Donner Party". The jokes were tasteless, anyway. An Everythingian from BAP 2.0 just got her law degree from Harvard. A quick pro bono letter to the county, and we had power and lighting. A reporter asked the county commissioner some pesky questions, a story about us went up on Drudge, and e-mails crashed the county server. We sent noders to fix it as a gesture of good faith, and they've grudgingly agreed to tap us into sewer within two years if we can afford our half.

I've stopped writing daylogs; if you miss my diaries, I'm sorry, but I've got more important things to do here. When Everything became a town, it was only a matter of time before it stopped being a website to us. Nate--and the noders who go about their normal lives, dropping in from time to time--gave us permission to sell printed copies of original fiction from E2. Some kids from Grinnell and Antioch College came through during their spring break. One of them bought a whole box, said he'd tell everyone where he got them. We're buying beer for the first time since Solstice with the money--and paying the power bill.

We've got reservations for spring break and eleven of the twelve weeks of summer--twenty people each week, and each of them pays a flat fee. Some pay the bill by working all week. College kids, hippies, an anthropologist. Two doctors who are going to Iraq to teach medical school want to practice by teaching us. Jaez is going to help them work on their Farsi. Five people are signed up to live here all summer. Well, except for the week we road trip to Bart's. We've got the money for everyone to go. Ten of us are remaining behind to keep an eye on the place. We're drawing lots to see who gets to stay.

The preceding is a work of original fiction; that means you can sell it. Make this the epigraph, make it an epilogue, make it toilet paper--but if I can do anything for you, let me know.