Sleet in the forecast, and I'm glad I got my driving-around errands done yesterday. Actually, I got most everything done yesterday, so today will be pleasantly unstructured, except for some bread baking. I've been fidgeting with a poem draft, and Dante awaits me, as always. I expect a boy will call to yikyak about something or other, and maybe the weather will let up enough for a walk.

Despite omicron, it seems that things are looking up in the NYC theater world: P's backstage work schedule has suddenly exploded, after a few weeks of dry anxiety. Meanwhile, filming on J's Chicago TV show has been shut down all week. P says there's a sense, in NY, that omicron is running its course quickly; I haven't heard the Chicago version of that speculation, but maybe I will today. 

Look at me, with the entertainment industry at my fingertips. And meanwhile all I do is read the Inferno and sleep through old episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

What I can say is that an obstinate artiness does appear to be endemic in this nuclear family. Tom with his camera, and me with my storytelling, and James with his camera, and Paul with his storytelling. Plus, we like cats.

I'm hoping this week to have some update about the new poetry collection: release date, cover reveal, some first events scheduled, and such. But for the moment I'll leave you with this sunrise view of my snowy little street, as seen from my dining-room window. Just out of sight is the Atlantic Ocean, briny and chill under a tangerine sky. We live so close to mystery.