Tomorrow I'll be leaving idyllic South Colton for the even more idyllic Blue Mountain Center, a place where artists and writers spend a month working free from the distractions of . . . What? Exactly? Well, anyway, we call it work so our spouses will let us go. What was that old New Yorker cartoon? Guy with a pipe in front of a window with a woman looking through a door at him. Caption: "A writer is a man who has convinced his wife that staring out the window all day is working." Anyhow, I do have a project -- a big folder of drafts of poems in syllabics that I have been working on, off & on, for more than twenty years. I hope all those rough pages want to become a book -- I know I want them to. We'll see. I also hope to rough out some of my ideas regarding poetics & some of that stuff may show up here on the blog. Or maybe not. (I will have internet access, but I really want to focus on the writing & plan to stay off the internet for the most part.) There is one piece of prose I've been working on, about who is responsible for torture done in the name of Americans and about how we ought to think about such acts, that I'm going to post as a draft this evening or first thing tomorrow morning. It is a kind of writing I want to pursue, but for which I have had insufficient confidence until recently. It's not that I'm all that confident now -- I just don't worry as much about how my thinking / writing will be received. Maybe that's what confidence is in the final analysis.