It's Friday, it's been a long week, and it won't end today, as tomorrow morning I'll be driving to Vermont for a speed visit with my family . . . over and back in two days because of the pressure of Tom's work schedule. We are tired, we are going to be more tired, but we're pretending to have fun and the pretense is amusing us, so that's something.

I've got lots of Friday housework to deal with, grocery shopping to do, but I also need to look at some of the poem drafts I wrote last night. I feel a little shaken up by them. They arrived suddenly but with a fair amount of pain--car accidents in the guise of poem drafts, I guess you could call them--and I have to figure out what happened, and what will.

That kind of experience leaves a throb that doesn't easily fade away, and this morning I am still feeling the exposure and the bewilderment. The making side of me is triumphant, but the rest of me vibrates like a picked scab. Such are the masochisms of poetry.

Tomorrow morning you may or may not hear from me. We're going to try to get going very early so as to make the most of our brief visit, and I may be rushing around doing all of the things I forgot to get done today. I hope not, but I wouldn't put it past me.

On another note, the Monson Arts teaching conference is already half full. If you're considering attending, you might want to make a move soon. I'm really pleased that we're filling so early, but I don't want you to lose your place.