It was a beautiful day for a drive north yesterday, and then last night I slept like a rock--and not like a small stone; more like a granite boulder. So I am waking up this morning with fresh air creeping through the open window and the sound of someone else lighting the stove and making coffee downstairs--a vacationy feeling, despite the fact that I have to hoick myself up and go to work.

Today my class will be focusing on details. We'll play with using them to swell and shrink drafts in various ways, and along the way I think I'll talk a little with them about what I've been doing with my recent Sappho-prompted project. I don't usually use my own work as an example, but sometimes it seems pertinent. What happens when you set yourself up for mystery? If nothing else, I hope these young people learn the glory of surprise.

Chuckie is so perplexed by the time change. At 3:30 a.m. he is licking my face and peering affectionately up my nose, convinced that now is the best of all possible times for breakfast. I honor his sweet temper and his youthful appetite, but oy. I fear this transition to Eastern Standard Time is going to be rocky for a while yet.

This afternoon I'll be driving up to Wellington, spending the night in the homeland so that I can teach in Monson on Tuesday. I bet the leaves are mostly gone from the trees up there, though when Gretchen and I drove down to Ogunquit yesterday, we noticed that far southern Maine trees are still very leafy. This is such a variable state, climate-wise.

Gretch and I went to look at the Carl Sprinchorn paintings at the Ogunquit Museum. It was the last day of that show, but the parallel show at Bates College is still up for a little longer, if you want to see his work. I think I mentioned in a previous post that Sprinchorn was a Swedish-born painter who spent a lot of time painting in the Monson and the Katahdin areas in the early part of the 20th century. It's been instructive to spend time with his sketches and finished pieces, especially in the midst of our performance focus. 

Otherwise, I dealt with home stuff yesterday--baking bread, washing kitchen shelves, putting away outdoor furniture--while Tom continued his door project: installing a moisture barrier where the stoop will abut the house, painting trim, carving out slots for the post-holders in the concrete footer. Now that the days have become shorter, there's even less daylight available, and paint dries slowly in cool weather. I can't imagine we'll have a stoop before the snow flies, but maybe I'm wrong.

This morning I'll go for my walk, deal with bathrooms and floors, prep for class, catch up with emails, stare at the poems in the new manuscript. I'm feeling pretty lively this morning, despite Chuck's attempts to reset the clock. It will be a fine day for a drive, to think about word repetition, to trudge through leaves, to mop a floor, to consider foreshadowing and suspense, to breathe cool air, to kiss my sweetheart, to warm my hands by the stove. I look forward to it all.

We got zero trick-or-treaters last night, which was not a surprise, given our unwelcoming front-door situation. I did make an attempt to encourage kids to the side door, but the light's not all that visible from the road, and the entry is tucked way down the driveway behind two vehicles and a pile of construction debris. So it's no wonder the kids didn't notice us-- though even on a good year, this end of the street doesn't attract a lot of trick-or-treaters. I don't know why, as the neighborhood looks like a stereotypical little-kid Halloween paradise.

Chuckie is very confused by the time change, so mixed up that he hasn't even been able to eat his breakfast. I agree with him: it is odd to be writing to you in daylight. Outside, the air is cold and still. November is upon us, with a sudden simplicity of sky and branch.

Yesterday I may have finished the Sappho project, which I am going to stop calling the Sappho project and refer to from now on by its actual title, Awake at the Olympus, thirty-nine pages of linked poems about a family that is both myth and flesh. Three people have read in-process versions of the draft so far, and one of them is my younger son. A kind of cinematic fairy tale, he tells me. Yes. My mind is filled with the imagery of noir movie sets, and yet, because of my language obligations (every poem contains every word, or a sonic imitator, of one particular Sappho fragment), I can't help but accept the mythic overtones.

For copyright reasons, I won't share the fragment translation here, but I can give you the eleven required words in alphabetical order:

arms

come

daughters

graces

here

like

of

pure

roses

with

Zeus

Some words, like of, are almost invisible in the poems. Some, like Zeus, are flashing lights every time they appear. Some, like pure, are trickily invasive. Yet on the whole these poems have not been a struggle to write, and that's because graces and roses immediately morphed into Grace and Rose, sisters who developed distinct characters and became my emotional through-line.

I don't quite know what to do with myself now, or what to do with this manuscript. I guess I'll do nothing, for the moment anyway. The past few months have been full of surprise, poem-wise. First there was that crown of sonnets. And now this. I wonder what will happen next.

Hey, I'm spending an entire weekend at home, and I'm not teaching or performing or anything! And so far Saturday is off to a great start: fire in the stove, coffee in my cup, Chuckie on the hearth rug, Tom fast asleep in bed.

I feel much livelier than I did yesterday at this time and am looking forward to dealing with a big batch of homestead stuff over the next two days: pruning and clearing in the garden, stowing outdoor furniture, washing down kitchen shelves, getting rid of construction dust, harvesting chard and kale. I'm also looking forward to reading and writing. Yesterday I was able to get back to the Sappho project and added three more poems to the manuscript. I'm still working my way through Dos Passos's U.S.A. and have made a small dent in Berryman's Dream Songs. I might watch the Bills play the Ravens tomorrow afternoon. I need to acquire some Halloween candy today and figure out how to direct kids away from the unusable front door to the less visible side door.

I could add a host of other this-and-thats as well; but though this to-do list may seem ambitious, it's really mostly puttering. In truth, I'm just looking forward to messing around with my own stuff, bumping shoulders with Tom as he messes around with his projects, greeting young Chuck as he interferes enthusiastically.

A sunny cool day in the little northern city by the sea. Blue sky. Half-bare trees. A bright wind.

I am so tired that I can barely think in sentences this morning. So pardon any oddness in this post.

We had a packed house. We got a standing ovation. It was a great night. We had so many friends there. Tom took me out to dinner afterward and I could barely keep myself from sagging against the wall as we ate. Walking back to the truck felt like walking through deep snow. Did I brush my teeth before I went to bed? Possibly.

Now I have to gather my strength to haul trash and recycling to the curb. Ugh. Even making coffee was hard. I feel like I've been run over by a street sweeper.

How do performers go on tour? Or show up for a Broadway gig every night? Jeez.

Well, I expect I'll become less limp as the day advances. But it's been a long couple of weeks.

The show itself, though . . . performing in front of that sweet crowd was tremendous.

When I walked into the house after 10 last night, I was glad to find T curled up on the couch watching the World Series. I figured it would be my last chance to see baseball for the season, and so it was. The Brewers won the series the convincingly, playing a lovely old-fashioned version of small ball--not relying on home runs but on an onslaught of base hits that got them onto base and then running. I like a big blast as much as the next person, but small ball is fun because it is busy--always something happening on the base paths: hitters teasing pitchers, pitchers teasing hitters, base stealers, pickoffs, swanky double plays, and then a tiny defensive error that lets the runners explode.

But now the games are over, and I will tuck my baseball habit into hibernation for a few months. Outside, in the darkness, a train hoots. Inside, Chuckie loudly crunches up some chow. A new fire shimmers in the stove.

I'm a little bit sleepy. I was out late, and went to bed late, but got up at the same old workaday time. Maybe I can snag a nap this morning before the afternoon odyssey begins. Last night's tech rehearsal was mostly for lights and sound; the performers hung around doing nothing and were cold and slightly grumpy, which is, I think, a typical description of tech rehearsals. But this afternoon that will change: we will be in the throes of cue checks and walk-throughs and run-throughs and nerves. The space is gorgeous and is professionally staffed, which is a huge help, but it also has peculiar sound and light issues and a very hard floor, all of which affect us in different ways. So I expect we'll stumble into some challenges during rehearsals.

Still, it's been fun to be on the performance circuit. I haven't done much of it since the days I was playing fiddle with Doughty Hill, and I do enjoy the excitement of hanging out with a troupe in one odd situation after another and figuring out how to get the night's job done. Constructing a performance is so different from standing in front of an audience in an open room. And practicing for a music gig is nothing like playing three sets in a crowded bar . . .

. . . and in between sets stepping outside into a winter night, coatless because you're so sweaty from playing so hard. The relief of that sharp air. The camaraderie of the smokers who surround you. You're a stranger but you just played a fiddle lead on "Wagon Wheel" so they love you. Another hour to go. You take deep breaths of cold smoky star-speckled night. Your bare arms prickle. 

Temperatures have dropped into the mid-20s this morning--our coldest day of the season, so far--but a fire crackles in the stove, and the house is snug.

Today is our younger son Paul's 29th birthday . . . so hard to believe we've known and loved him for almost three decades, so hard to imagine our world without him. I went into labor with Paul during an ice storm, and his birthday always seems to mark a turn in the weather. "Deer season starts this weekend," my friends up north remind me. Time to dig out the orange hats. Time to change the clocks. Time to watch the snow fly.

Yesterday I baked a couple of loaves of rye bread and a pumpkin-buttermilk pudding. I cleaned bathrooms and caught up with grocery shopping. I went to the Y, and went for a walk, and talked with my performer friends, but mostly I spent the day alone, which was good. This evening the flurry starts up again--tech rehearsal until 10 p.m., then run-throughs tomorrow afternoon and our performance tomorrow night. So I'll spend the day finishing up the weekly housework, prepping for next week's Monson class, walking, maybe raking leaves, trying to snag a bit of rest before the attack of tech.