I have to admit that I voted for us, out of sheer loyalty to Tim. I didn't think we had a snowball's chance of winning, though. I mean, we were up against a Squishy entry, for chrissake. Is it even possible to beat Squishy? That just seems wrong to me.

Regardless, that entry means a whole lot to me. It may not read like a love letter to the average reader, but it is to me. So thank you much.

In addition, I'm very excited that Karen and Melissa won, both of whom are on my list of all-time favorites. So congratulations to all and sundry, winners and finalists alike.

Toker is getting married very soon, as I mentioned in a previous entry. While we were drinking at the bar, he commented that he's "hoping the marriage will last at least four years." I am still in disbelief that he said that. I said, "Oh my god, do you really mean that?" He just looked at me and said, "Well, nothing lasts forever."

I mean, okay, sure, no, it doesn't, but shouldn't you be at least aiming for "the rest of my life" instead of four years? Aren't you supposed to be starry eyed and dazed with love when you're about to marry someone? Maybe nothing lasts forever, but four years isn't even close.

On the other hand, maybe Toker is onto something. Considering who our president is, the next four years could seem like forever...

I had my doubts about whether the sequel to Survivor could be as good as the original, but it just keeps getting better and better. First came the "Michael Skupkin's one man production of Lord of the Flies" episode. Then tonight's, with the drama of the injury, and the heavily drugged Mike saying, "I love you guys..." over and over. I actually started to tear up, when Elizabeth and Alicia were crying and they were all hugging each other.

But the best moment of any Survivor episode ever was when Ogakor lost the challenge, and Colby gave Jerri the dirtiest glare in the world, then threw a bucket of water on her. She tried to play it off, but he was pissed as hell. She wants him, and he just hates her! I couldn't stop laughing.

I finally started a project that's been on the back burner for some time. I am designing a poetry workshop in the hopes of being awarded a (miniscule) fellowship to teach next semester. Regardless of the (miniscule) money involved, I would love the opportunity to teach a real class. And it's always been my hope to teach a poetry workshop. So keep your fingers crossed for me.

I think the proposal is pretty good so far. It's a sixteen week course, each week focusing on a different element of poetry, starting with the absolute basics (rhyme, meter, metaphor) and moving up to more complicated ideas (persona, surrealism, advanced form) later on. Each week will have a writing assignment related to the topic, and then a round table workshop of each person's poem.

I want to create a reader with about fifteen poems for each week on each topic. I want to include everything from Shakespeare's rhymed sonnets to the latest crazy masterpiece Checkers has written. Creating that reader would be great fun. I love sharing poetry with others, especially poetry that I love. For instance, there's a great one in the sidebar, and if you haven't read this one by Galway Kinnell (and this means you, Melissa)...

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

For I can snore like a bullhorn
or play loud music
or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman
and Fergus will only sink deeper
into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash,
but let there be that heavy breathing
or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house
and he will wrench himself awake
and make for it on the run-as now, we lie together,
after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies,
familiar touch of the long-married,
and he appears-in his baseball pajamas, it happens,
the neck opening so small
he has to screw them on, which one day may make him wonder
about the mental capacity of baseball players-
and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep,
his face gleaming with the satisfaction of being this very child.

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across his little, startingly muscled body-
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again into our arms.

Today's Urban Scrawl class was very interesting. We were talking about the mechanics of housekeeping in the late 19th century. It took the servants two weeks to clean every room of an aristocrat's house. Nothing was practical, everything was intricate. Things we take for granted (like refrigeration, and meat that's already cut off the carcass, and pre-packaged food) just didn't exist back then. The poor even used sawdust to make bread. Can you imagine?

We learned a lot of interesting tidbits, but the one that struck me the most was that this period saw the turning of the household from a place of production into a place of consumption. People used to, as a matter of course, make their own clothes, bake their own bread, grow their own food, etc. etc. At this time, people started turning their houses basically into department store showrooms or museums.

Obviously, we're still at the mercy of the consumer culture, and that seems unlikely to change. It's just startling to look back at the exact historical moment of our surrender.

I heard on the news yesterday that Los Angeles has gotten more rain since October than Seattle, Portland, and the entire Bay Area. It's apparently been raining there for months, with no sign of letting up.

If you live in the area, and you're wondering why this is, I'm here to tell you that the answer is obvious. Los Angeles is obviously just upset that I moved away. Los Angeles is crying, because it misses me. Aww. I love you too, Los Angeles. I'll come visit soon.

"Charlotte was in the midst of that mysterious process that turns a girl into a bride, and I felt like one of the adoring little kids they have at every wedding, just gazing at her in amazement."