I am presently being interviewed for an online journal of poetry reviews and interviews; and although the journal is based in the United States, my interviewer is British. His approach, thus far, has been to email me one question, wait for my answer, and then email me a response question. It seems to be working fairly well, except that, per usual, I can't stop talking. Also, I keep quoting from Tracing Paradise, and quoting myself feels very strange, rather like possessing a split personality. One of me is steady and reliable, with predictable commentary; one of me is flighty and confused and keeps contradicting herself.

And now I must stop writing and go deal out hay and grain to those goats and chickens, and poke a few more pieces of crushed clementine box into the woodstove to revive the flame, and start this morning's batch of bread, which I'll be baking every day this week in order to stuff it down the insatiable maw of boys and dinner guests. "Insatiable maw" sounds rude but isn't meant to be. I like to feed dragons.