I read a very very trivial novel. I was embarrassed at myself for reading it. I also read a "woman's" magazine.

I had a poetry reading at my house last night. Today I took some time to remember details.

I made a list for Santa. What I crave more than anything is imaginative language and love. They are the same thing.

Communication and connection. I'm trapped in email hell. This is not good. I don't know how to get out of it. Refocus.

I made up another character: "Holy Rhonda." Satisfying. Why am I embarrassed by my imagination? I'm sorry.

Now I'm going to read Alice Walker and then Ursula LeGuin's The Telling. They will rescue me.

I surrender