This week has bustled along. I'm surprised to see Friday arrive so soon, but here it is again, in all of its trash-day glory. Little Chuck is crunching his breakfast chow, I am drinking my modicum of black coffee, T is creaking around in the bed. Any moment now his feet will hit the floor and the morning show will begin.

I'll mostly be editing today, but I've also got some prep to do for next Saturday's Poetry Kitchen class, which will be a reunion session for Monson Arts and Frost Place alums. And with luck I'll find time to frame up another poem draft for the performance project. Those pieces are continuing to tumble into the world: I wrote a new poem yesterday, even in the midst of more pressing obligations. With each one, I feel like I'm opening a little window on an Advent calendar. "I wonder what I should say?" I ask myself as I peek behind the shutters, and suddenly an anecdote or an image shines in my thoughts, and a new draft asserts itself.

An interesting side-note is that the draft-blurts I'm writing with my Thursday night poets are awful and useless. In the past those blurts have been exciting starting points for new work, but right now they seem to have nothing to do with anything. My creative energy is coming from somewhere else, at least for the moment.

But so it goes. The Muse is a weirdo who shows up at the bar right before it's about to close and requests a complicated blender drink.