Coming in December

Last night, Friday, George asked me if I would be willing to read at a first Friday in December or February. Looks like I'll need to get creative over the summer. Actually I have been, in the studio. Even though I have three windows, on the cardinal points of the compass except for the south, I face the south looking at a white wall. I had been looking out the window at a tree trunk but the action on the tree became too involved. A squirrel would come by and try to stare me down. There we were, eyes locked, neither willing to break the gaze for whoever broke the gaze lost the game and the stakes were high. Who had the right to the nuts? Who would prevail over the territory? The squirrel, you see, was attempting to lead me down the wrong path, trying to force me back into safe territory, back into first space, back into the known, back into the manipulated lies of squirreldom. I have turned my back to the squirrels of the world after discovering how akin they are to rats. If you skin a squirrel's tale you get a rat. And we know what rats are like. Michelle and her beau were the only ones of the class present on Friday. Not another until August. I'll keep writing until then.