In the still of the night

Raining all weekend. Writing and movies for me, tucked away in the dry, in the warm. Winter is like this: I hardly go out unless I have to. And what is there I have to get out for? Not much, these days. Still, a pleasant weekend. Finally: I vanquished the evil eBay seller and as I expected they weren't crooked, just swamped. Apparently a glitch in their shipping info sent several dozen packages to wrong addresses all over the country. One woman in Colorado Springs received 17 of the boxsets I'd ordered. She wanted just one. Oops. Still, that doesn't excuse their not answering emails, giving me conflicting info on the phone, and just plain annoying me. I returned the favor, making enough of a nuisance of myself that a very nice girl finally gave me the lowdown, telling me they'd re-routed the package and it did in fact arrive on Friday. And it's so cool, compact and snazzy, taking up perhaps the space of two seasons. So all's well on that front.


***

I've been writing, or working on, letters of recommendation for friends. Which is nice, in a way. Even though there's a kind of generic nature to these, a certain form to follow, it's not rote work when you're talking about people you care for, whose work you admire.

I appreciate everyone who's ever helped me. I want to do the same for others. It's a pleasure and a privilege.

***

I wrote a poem this weekend. A private poem, not for public consumption. Private.