The end of the quarter is fast approaching. By my count, there's three weeks left.
I feel like I'm sputtering . . . like some kid dumped a bag of sugar into my gas tank.
I've got a gig over at the Whidbey Island Writers' Conference this Friday and Saturday. If you're in the area, mosey on over.
No poems in me these days. That's okay. I haven't had any real time to read and I'm usually most productive when I've got some spare time to kick up my feet and crack open a book or two. No such luck these days now that the rugrat is trying to walk. Yes, he's trying to walk. We've been holding him up by one arm and he's been walking along side us. He doesn't take naps like he used to, so I've been on constant alert--sort of explains the not-writing bit.
More later. Right now I'm trying to quietly click the keys on a very new and very loud PC (gasp). I'm at my parents' house. They just left for O-town and won't be back for another two weeks. When they come back in March, it'll be for good for my mother. She's a bit sad and I feel bad, but I totally understand. And anyway, she'll be closer to the grinning grandbaby.
J. Tillman. "Firstborn." Simplest video ever, but lovely.
14 hours ago