Friday morning, trash day, doctor's-appointment day, that kind of day. And here I am, with my small cup of black coffee, preparing to pull myself together, but not pulling myself together yet. In the dining room the cat is crunching up his breakfast. Upstairs, T is pretending he doesn't have to get out of bed and go to work. Outside, a pale frost coats the gardens, the windshields, the roofs.

Friday morning. At the salon last night I wrote three poem-blurts. One might have possibilities, but the other two are dumb. I guess that's better than nothing. Still, I worry about my tendency to slop over into improv comedy. I have trouble staying serious with these prompts.

Friday morning, and two editing projects have shown up on my desk, and I have to teach on Sunday, and my small semi-work-stoppage is over, and I wish I'd gotten more accomplished. I say that, and then I see that I wrote two new poem drafts, cleaned the house thoroughly, read four books, did a passel of class planning, gave a public reading, and mostly finished the Christmas shopping, and I wonder what I expect of myself. Sometimes (all of the time?) I am an idiot.