This week is flying by: suddenly it's Friday, and I'm wondering how I got here. I'll be glad to have a weekend at home, though I expect I'll be working through some of it, as I stupidly agreed to add even more burdens to my load--a judging gig that has to be completed by the end of the month. But so far, so good with the new editing project; so far, so good with my classes. I'm churning forward.

Last night I went out to write, always a good evening. Writing with that community makes me feel brighter, cleaner, like I've been to church, like I've received an ineffable something that will hold me in grace for the coming week. How can that happen via a scatty potluck dinner, some chatter, and a few open-ended writing prompts? I have no idea, but it does.

So today, with that gift in my pocket, I'll get onto my mat, I'll get back to my desk, I'll pound out a few hours of editing work, I'll fidget with a poem draft. In the afternoon Teresa and I will talk about Southey and Cowper, I'll start judging writing samples, I'll mull over upcoming classes, I'll bread parmesan lamb chops for dinner, I'll dig into the McMurtry novel I've started rereading. So many words; so many sentences. Isn' t this a crazy literary life I lead?

Yes, I know: these January days are a quickstep into the spiral of Trump. So what's your resistance? Mine is to swim in every wonderful thing he knows nothing about. I read books! I go for long walks! I hug my cat! I kiss my beloved! Take that you, asshole. Bet you wish you were me.