Today will be the usual sort of pre-Christmas rushing-around day, as tomorrow morning we head south to Tom's parents for the holiday . . . of course, with the dystopian caveat that it will also include Covid tests. We're testing, the boys are testing, we've gotten our boosters; all of us are doing our very best to be good to each other, but, still, there's nervousness in the air. 

I will do some editing this morning, and endure my exercise class, but then I'll shift to errands and laundry and bathrooms and packing and such. I hope we can get on the road fairly early on Friday, as both boys will be arriving later in the day, and we should be there to help fetch them from airport and bus stop.

I'm feeling sort of blank this morning, chat-wise. Nothing wrong, not gloomy or unduly stressed. Just a little tongue-tied, I guess. Last night Tom and I had a fun evening with our silly Christmas-present project: I made the mysterious labels; he made the mysterious packages; and then we sat by the fire and listened to Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis," our traditional nod to holiday ambience.

I've started reading a book that my friend David gave me: Border: A Journey to the Edge of Europe, by the Bulgarian-born poet Kapka Kassabova. David had seen it reviewed by a poet we both admire, Alicia Stallings, and thought I might like it, which I do. It is a compelling combination of reportage, memoir, and poetic reaction, focusing on the borderlands of Bulgaria, Greece, and Turkey--center of ancient Thrace, the Dionysian mysteries, the Ottoman Empire, and Soviet control. It will make peculiar Christmas reading, but so be it.