This place feels like November. On a windy walk with my neighbor yesterday I wore a hat and gloves, though last week I hadn't even gotten them out of storage yet. The trees are mostly bare, and the neighborhood skyline has transformed from a leafy extravaganza into a clutter of austere chimneys and steeples.

I spent the morning working on my Monson plans: we're going to focus on accidents . . . found poems, blackouts, borrowings. (Among other things, I'm going to show them a poem I wrote using a motel's Yelp reviews.) And then in the evening I went out to the salon and wrote three ridiculous surreal romps that don't feel like they'll ever amount to anything poem-wise but were cathartic in their own way. The relief of absurdity, you might call it. Anyway, I came home feeling better about myself, writing-wise. I haven't been producing much lately, and silly is better than nothing at all.

The car mechanic says I need new tires, so this morning I'll be sitting in a waiting room at the Tire Warehouse, reading other people's manuscripts and looking forward to a new and improved ride. Then this afternoon I'm getting a haircut. Thus are the excitements of Friday: spending money, American-style.