I like most weather, but last night's was awful: a whipping slush gale without one single charm, except for the relief of not being outside in it. This morning the neighborhood is coated with an inch of glop that will undoubtedly melt before noon. We were fortunate in getting so little accumulation: apparently 200,000 people around the state lost power from that ugly storm.

But while the slush was battering at our doors and windows, I had a zoom-date with two of my writer friends, which was silly and sweet and comforting and more fun than I expected, given my horror of video. I made macaroni-and-cheese and a green salad with pears and grapefruit. Tom and I watched part of a disco movie titled "Thank God It's Friday," starring Donna Summer and the Commodores. It was a good evening.

I didn't edit yesterday but instead spent most of it shopping . . . by which I mean texting or telephoning a plethora of small markets, tracking down sources for various staples, succeeding or failing, ordering, picking up curbside bags and boxes. By the end of the afternoon I'd visited four different curbs: Paris Farmers Union (four dozen eggs: my big score!), the Quality Shop (milk and cheddar), Rosemont Market (bread for the freezer, broccoli, oranges, pears), Maine Hardware (dish soap, laundry soap, cat litter). This new version of shopping is time-consuming yet not terrible. I don't like having other people choose my produce for me. I also don't like buying bread that I could easily bake, if I had an adequate flour supply. But our shelves are stocked, the little shops are staying in business, and I haven't set foot inside a store for a couple of weeks.

Today, as the slush dissolves, I'll return to the editing stack, do a little Monson Arts work, fidget with an unsatisfactory poem draft, copy out more Blake, sit by the fire with Northanger Abbey, walk through puddles and mud, make chicory and rice soup.

My poetry group is having a zoom meeting on Monday, and I suppose I'll submit that unsatisfactory draft for discussion, though I don't much want to hear any discussion of it. I already know it's awkward. But I don't currently have any other options. My main writing these days is the pedestrian prose on this blog. It doesn't feel like art, and it's certainly not journalism. My subject matter is dull. Still, I am slogging forward.