Eight below this morning, but the winds have died down. Everything outside looks stiff and still in the fading dawn. Inside, the old clock ticks on the mantle; the furnace kicks on; the cat dozes; the coffee cools in its white cup.

I went nowhere yesterday, but today I might venture out for a walk or for errands. I need to do a little painting inside an alcove where Tom wants to set up his stereo. Otherwise, my day is unstructured . . . unless Tom has a plan of action he hasn't shared with me yet.

In and among floor washing and laundry and dusting and pot scouring, I did copy out some Philip Levine poems yesterday. I finished reading a history of our section of Portland, which was once its own city, known as Deering, until it was annexed in the 1880s. I started rereading "A Secret to Be Burried," the diary of Emily Gillespie, who was an unhappy midwestern farm wife during the second half of the nineteenth century. I have also been working my way through Camus's The Stranger, which I last read in high school French class and am now revisiting in translation. Gary Snyder's Turtle Island is sitting on my desk, waiting to be opened. The jumbled nature of these titles reflects the jumbled nature of unpacking. Everything looks so interesting when it's no longer neatly arranged in alphabetical order.

I wonder if we have any chance of getting kitchen plumbing this week?  I wonder if the temperature really will rise into the 40s by Friday?

By the way: I should remind you that I'll be leading a 10-week essay workshop here in Portland starting later this month. I'd love, love, love to see you there.