It's still hot in NY, but I assure you it was hotter in Dallas. Roughly 100 degrees, no matter what time of day. HOT. But we're back, just got back. It was a wonderful trip--B met the rest of my family, all of whom liked her a very great deal, and all of whom she liked a very great deal. My Grandma, who is 93, is having a rough time, which made the trip a bit hard for everyone, but I'm glad B and I were there to help out, to see her, for her to meet B. We played with my sweet baby and todler cousins, cute as all hell. I'm very grateful for the trip.
Just finished a novel with a too-happy ending. I won't tell you which one. The rest of the book was wonderful, but the author ties it all up too neatly in the end--it doesn't pay to go through a whole heap of suffering with a series of characters only to learn that the moral is something like "everything will turn out fine if you wait a while." Why do novelists feel compelled to do that? That goes out to all you novelists out there.
Also, I'm excited to make my way through fascicle, an impressively full plate of new poems and poetica.