Yesterday, as I scurried from car to fish market, car to Italian market, the breeze tearing up from the bay was like iron. But already it's much warmer outside than it was yesterday. The winds have shifted, the earth has turned; suddenly the scent of the air has changed, and the cat is bouncing up and down and batting at the door knob, begging to be let out.

For the past few days I've been rereading Charlotte Bronte's Villette, which is not a cheerful book. All of her novels are repressed chaos scattered with firefights and implosions, and this one in particular reeks of tamped-down arson. Probably it wasn't the best choice for the moment, but too late now: I'm stuck inside. Perhaps a walk in modest sunshine will be a moderating influence. Perhaps I could write a little arson myself, as an antidote.

I got my basic housework done yesterday, so my obligations are thin. Maybe today I'll spring-clean a room. Maybe today I'll work on writing prompts for my poetry-as-resistance class. Maybe I'll take the violin out of its case. Maybe someone will knock on the door and sweep me out of my rut. With all of the windows shut tight, the Bronte miasma is a bit overpowering.