Welcome to the post-Christmas world, where people get up too early and go to work and stuff. Plus, the temperatures dropped overnight from the drizzly mid-thirties down to the high teens, so all of the doors are frozen shut. That seems like an apt metaphor for something or other.

However, things aren't too bad here, despite the looming metaphor. I slept well, and got all of my Sunday chores done in the morning, and spent much of the afternoon reading except when I went for a very pleasant walk in the drizzle, and we ate pork tacos for dinner, and also I worked on a poem draft, and I might even have watched football except that I hated all of the teams on the available broadcasts. I hear things were lively on the Buccaneers' sidelines but I don't look at Tom Brady if I can help it.

[Now that I have gotten those ridiculously constructed sentences out of my system, I feel ready to return to the staid world of academic editing. Blowing off some syntactical steam, you might call it.]

Today will be all about editing, until it's about grocery shopping. Tomorrow afternoon I'll meet with my Telling Room poet, and Wednesday afternoon will be Frost Place planning, and Thursday night will be my sociable writing salon, and Friday night is the opening of Tom's photo show. A packed week, but I've already made good progress with the editing stack, so things should jump into place.

I'm rereading To Kill a Mockingbird with my friend Donna, and Dante always awaits me, and I have an upcoming chapbook seminar to plan for, and Teresa and I will be starting a project involving maybe Gilgamesh, maybe Ulysses, plus I'm cogitating over collections by Vievee Francis and Maurice Manning, and possibly the short stories of Mavis Gallant, which Tom got for Christmas but I might steal from him.

[I see my sentence style is veering off into the loopy again. But don't worry: untangling the explications of medieval manuscript codices will straighten me out . . . ]