I finished my editing assignment yesterday, which means that I'll have a couple of days off for other pursuits . . . housework and class planning, yes, but maybe also some reading and poem revision. Given that I'll be teaching on Saturday, I ought to allow myself a few hours of unstructured time, but we'll see how the day goes. Thursday is usually going-out-to-write night, which means I have to make something for the potluck, which means I'll feel responsible for creating a writing prompt for the group, which means that suddenly, every Thursday afternoon, I am rushing around like an idiot trying to get stuff done.

Well, whatever the case, it will be a change to not be editing, to just be messing around with my own stuff. I should string another batch of peppers for drying. I should dust and sweep. I should dip into the poems of Alexander Pope, just to remind myself of what Coleridge and Wordsworth were arguing against when they conceived of the Lyrical Ballads. 

But the first thing I'll do is embark on another mushroom hunt. I didn't go out yesterday, which means that I am now filled with optimism about all of the places I didn't forage in. My balloon will likely burst, but maybe not, maybe not. I've been pretty successful so far this fall. Four quart bags of sautéed chicken-of-the-woods; three of maitakes: enough booty to take us well into the winter. But I am greedy and I love the hunt.

By the way, I've got a new poem up at Scoundrel Time, a surreal venture, quite different from what I often publish, but maybe you can read it as a disquisition on the human longing for ritual. Or maybe you can read it as a Halloween poem. Or maybe you can just read it. That would probably be best.