The temperature is currently 41 degrees, so cold, yes, but no frost. Nonetheless, yesterday afternoon I picked all of my big peppers, all of the tomatoes that showed any signs of ripening, the eggplant, the okra, and I pulled the rest of the carrots (not for frost reasons, but for making-space-for-garlic reasons).

I'll be at a Telling Room curriculum meeting all day. I doubt I'll be teaching for them much this year, given my Monson Arts schedule, but maybe I'll figure out a way to fit in a few sessions. At the moment I'm finding it hard to believe I'll have time to do anything more, though I'd also been hoping to propose another 24PearlStreet class this winter. I've got so much editing, and boy stuff to fit in as well--a trip to Chicago, a directing debut at Bennington--and I wake up in the night wondering, Oh, how will I do it? And then I fall into strange and distressing dreams about trying to find an apartment in Houston (where I've never been), and both the boys are small again, and Tom is nowhere to be seen, and we end up in a horrible place beside a highway off-ramp, in which the kitchen counter is also a bike rack and all three of us have to sleep in a room weirdly littered with tawdry princess decorations.

But in daylight hours I'm more or less keeping myself calm. Last night I lit the first fire of the season in the wood stove, climbed under the couch blanket, and began reading Ilya Kaminsky's Deaf Republic. The cover design is terrible, but don't let that distract you because the collection is completely stunning. It's the best book of poetry I've read in quite a while. If you've read it too, I'd love to hear your thoughts.