After much interruption and procrastination, I have finished my Christmas shopping (I think, I hope). Mid-morning I managed to convince myself to drive downtown and park and then walk to a used bookstore and a used clothing store--the two sorts of shops that I can actually tolerate . . . and success! So once I get the rest of the cards filled out, I'll be more or less caught up with the Christmas chore. The timing is good, as I'm expecting my next editing project to arrive at any moment. In the meantime, as I wait for those files, I'll take one more writing day: comb through the stack of drafts I wrote last week, spend some time with Dante and Sappho, maybe figure out how to trigger another new poem.

Last night I dreamed that I walked from one shadowy room to the next and discovered a late-night jazz club in my own house--quiet singer on a low stage, brown sepia light; no real memory of music, just hushed listeners, shapes in a room, attentiveness.

I'm going to read this dream as a message to myself.