Woke up to freezing rain pecking at the windows . . . it seems that we'll be having a slow and sleety Saturday morning.

This is an unexpected long weekend for both us: T's employer decided to add Martin Luther King, Jr., Day to its list of paid vacation days, and that editing project I was supposed to start on Friday hasn't shown up yet. So here we are, with three days off.

One of these mornings we'll go bowling, my activity gift for T's birthday. But given the weather, that might not be today. Tomorrow afternoon I'll watch the Bills-Dolphins game. Otherwise, my only plans for the weekend are to mess around with poem drafts, read books, and cook some stuff. I think I'll bake bread. I'm soaking kidney beans for chili. I'm working on a draft in progress, with two more notebook blurts to transcribe. I've got 15 pages of Robert Southwell poems to read and discuss with Teresa. I'm finishing up the Trevor stories and getting ready to start Trollope's The Small House at Allington. I'm halfway through Watchmen. If all else fails, I've got the Inferno to copy. And if the freezing rain stops, I can go for a walk.

You see the unthrilling life I lead. Yet, oddly enough, it's everything I want to do.

He ran through time, spending it as a spendthrift, wallowing in idleness. Perhaps poets always did, perhaps it was the way they had to live; I didn't know.

--William Trevor, "Marrying Damian," from After Rain (1996)