I'm spending too much time with snow shovels lately. Moved and moved through way too much snow today. Walked and slipped and fell. Drove through whiteouts too with corresponding white knuckles. We had high winds and over a foot of snowfall throughout the day on top of what we already had and more is coming. Am running out of places to put it. It's exhausting to deal with.
This evening I started writing a review of Brenda Iijima's If Not Metamorphic which I have been procrastinating about for months, not knowing how to get started. I'm 200 words in, so have something to build on now.
Poetry eludes me these days.
In today's mail The Preparation of the Novel by Roland Barthes (his final lectures) just out from Columbia University Press. There's always something of use in Barthes' work.
I no longer know why I blog.
My shoulder hurts, my knee hurts, my back hurts, my head aches and I can barely keep my eyes open. I'm in a lousy mood. Goodnight.