Quelle wimp je suis

OK,that's it. Screw the brave face, hunker down, wait it through, chin up, chipper, Midwestern stoic BS. All the edges of my body are cold. The tip of my nose. The tops of my forearms and thighs. Let's not even talk about my fingers. My eyelashes are cold. Froid, in French. Nearly sang froid, but not the sociopathic kind, just the cold kind. Long johns, sweat pants, two Tshirts, a tank top, a sweat jacket, fingerless wool gloves (for typing and reading), two pairs of socks, fuzzy slippers, a fleece shawl, and a blanket. I am not kidding. I would get the cat in my lap for the body heat, but then there's no room for the file-o-poems and the computer -- as the cat weighs 22 pounds.

My sympathies for that coyote and anyone or anything to the north of me deepens by the windchilled dropping degree.

Meanwhile, I'm cranky enough not to read about Miss Stein. Everyone needs a day or two off from: James, Bergson, Buddhism, Cubism, Experimental, Futurist (which, no), too much critical work on her narrative and narrators, rinse, repeat. So, today is Play in My Poetry and Consider Building a Fire in My Bedroom Day.

Pop Quiz: other than gallons of warm tea, what are your favorite strategies for convincing yourself that you are not cold and it's OK, really, to unclench the permanently half-clenched muscles? I'll try almost anything.