My parsimonious son must be pleased that his heat bill is included in the rent for his Chicago apartment because his furnace will be running nonstop for days on end. Here in Maine we just have regular old single-digit cold, none of that high-of-minus-20 stuff. We can go outside without our eyeballs freezing up in our heads.
At last night's poetry group, the piece I brought to share, titled "Dead Poet," was pronounced "very odd" and "very interesting." I took that as success.
Tonight Tom and I are going to the symphony with friends who offered us tickets. The program is Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet and Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherezade--Russian romance writ jumbo-sized. I look forward to R&J because it always makes me cry. (Tom, you won't be surprised to hear, prefers Stravinsky.)
Today will be a normal day. Reading essays. Writing lessons for high schoolers. Washing sheets. Reading about 1815. I hope I'll be going for a long walk, though the sidewalks are icy and treacherous. I hope I'll be writing another odd poem.