The Fog: A Movie by John Carpenter

Fog nearly obliterated the mountains and the Valhalla Glacier across the lake early this morning. Roosters were crowing, but otherwise all was quiet. My fire had crackled its last but the cabin was still fairly warm. This afternoon, a class visit with a class I visited last year: how to make things different? And tonight a workshop with adults: we'll write some poetry and some fiction, and I'll try to cram as much as I can into three hours.

Much of yesterday was spent trying to solve an electricity problem in the cabin. I think I shorted things by having the jacuzzi, the capuccino maker, the widescreen TV, and the robot all going at the same time. Well, the heater and the kettle, anyway. But before that, Terry introduced me to a couple of her friends who live on the poet Diana Hartog's old property nearby, and I got to see the eccentric, beautiful house that Hartog built with her own hands. It reminded me a lot of Pablo Neruda's house in Valparaiso: vertical, angular, with lots of windows in strategic places; it also has a sort of gangway all around the outside, as if it were a boat.

I have no idea what a gangway is. Is that even a word?

Nice rain yesterday afternoon drove me down to the cabin where I holed up for an hour and made some progress on piecing together my poetry manuscript. I think I no longer like the title New Hope For The Disenfranchised. Gotta think it through some more. I suddenly remembered a few poems that I've never entered into my computer from my notebook, including some haiku I wrote last year in Edmonton. I think I blogged them. My memory is that they were awful, but maybe they were awful in an interesting way. I'll have to look for them.

The next few days are busy with workshops and readings. Looking forward to the time to relax and write after that.

Over and out.