i am re-reading the secret history for perhaps the 10th time. i'm not doing my exaggeration thing; i've tried to count, and i believe that this is actually somewhere around the 10th time i've read it. twice now i've gotten to the end only to immediately go back and begin re-reading it. i often pick it up and read certain favorite passages. until this past sunday, though, i hadn't opened it for about six months. then i was gripped with lonely sunday-ness, and when i'm feeling sad or lonely or unwell, i turn to the secret history. it's my literary version of a warm comfy blankie. one of my favorite feelings in the world is the anticipation of getting home (or wherever) and picking up a book i'm in the middle of. and even though this is the 10th time (or so) that i've read it, i still get that feeling with tsh.

i will be working for the law firm for 2 more weeks, and then i'm off for the holidays. and then... the scary part: using my student loans for that which they were intended (my living expenses) and making poetry my only job for three whole months. for three months, my job will be to wake up and write poems for my thesis, which is due in march. this is exciting, and amazing, and terrifying like you wouldn't believe. i wish i had brett's tenacity -- working all day then going down to his studio to paint for hours. maybe writing poems is just like writing a big research paper: the hard part is starting. let's hope so.

xo.