I was under the impression we were supposed to get an inch or so of snow last night, but from the window it looks as if considerably more fell. Our across-the-street neighbor is outside in shorts and a plaid coat shoveling his driveway in the dark, a vision that metaphorically sums up something or other: fill in the blank yourself. March in the north country can drive even the sanest of us into mad science and despair. So who knows?--wearing shorts while shoveling snow may be a first step toward playing recklessly with lightning and drinking smoky bubbly stuff out of beakers. I wonder if I should warn his family.

Yesterday I sent the poetry ms off to another publisher. Perhaps that was a good idea; perhaps it was a March-hare move; perhaps I should stop fretting and start studying world religions or take up knitting or maybe dabble a little in mad science. This is the season for blaming everything on the weather: the days are getting longer! the snowdrops are budding! the little birds are singing! eight fucking inches of snow fell overnight! [Cue thunderclap and evil laugh here.]

Ah, well. In less silly moments I get a lot of work done. Today I'll fidget with high school plans and the editing project, and possibly even deal with the stacks of books that are overtaking my study. I'm still reading The Pillow Book and Aurora Leigh, and now I've added Trollope's Doctor Thorne to the pile. This morning I'll get onto my mat, and eat oatmeal and fruit for breakfast, and enact the part of a wholesome and discreet citizen, and only Young Chuck will be fooled but he believes anything.