Friday and I've been descending for a few days into the fog of a fall cold. I'm somewhere deep inside a cave in the middle of a mountain. Hibernation is setting in. Where's that box of Kleenex I saw last spring? Last night I dreamed a home repair man was trying to remove a bear from my backyard, but I chastised him, saying, Are you crazy, that bear belongs there. If you would have looked harder you might have noticed the lion, too. I'm not sure what that's all about, but animals are frequently prominent features in my dreams.
Workshopping is off to a good start. Our group managed to eat and drink (with some smoke) our way through five poem in three hours. Faster than a speeding bullet we have begun. A good time was had by all. The most serious discussion involved future location/time. Some of us want a little more quiet, some of us don't want to give up the beer and snacks. Chris O'Brien has offered a compromise for Bucket nights, come to her house, close to downtown, enjoy the quiet, drink/eat whatever you want to bring, sit around her large kitchen table. It sounds great to me, but let me know what you think. It's also a good deal cheaper, which most of us don't mind. Time is still up in the air. There seems to be no night that suits everyone, so we'll stick with Wednesday for the time being, perhaps move it to every other Wednesday or something like that. Maybe next semester we will have some relief.
If you didn't make it Wednesday, come next Friday and we'll workshop at The Chicory. In case you hadn't noticed, we're making this up as we go. Isn't that what writers do?