I drove up north yesterday afternoon for a band gig, spent the night in beautiful silent starlit Wellington, and then trundled home to the city to paint a ceiling. Next weekend will be more of the same: for some reason, we ended up with a bunch of fall gigs.

This week I'll be starting a couple of new editing projects, for private clients, on subjects I don't usually deal with, so that will be something new. I've got a poem draft burbling on the stove, and more ceilings to paint, and all of the doll-house housework to do. A friend and I might be going on a mushroom walk today.

But back to that burbling poem draft: it might be nothing, but I like how its sentences are rolling out of my fingers. If nothing else, it seems to be giving me the pleasure of composition and God knows that's not a given.