the sound of distant drumming

the moon now so bright and unshadowed, a spotlight rising over the chimney last night, shining down on us in the hottub.  so very cold, down into the low 20's this early morning. i don't yet know how the plants fared in the greenhouse.  i covered the things still on the patio and porch and they survived. 

i can't write about things political right now, it's too nonfiction for my exhausted heart and mind.  other aol journallers are covering the waterfront, fdtate, bruce miller, the happy chica. i'm reading them, i'm reading many other news sites and weblogs dealing with the myriad issues and questions spiraling on ad infinitum.  right now i have little or nothing to add to the chorus.  i'm lost in a strange black space and i need poetry, mystery, magic. not candidates' debate (everything's a song lyric, isn't it?  eventually?), not war issues (for a while, only a little while), jessica lynch, pollsters, opinions.  i need wine, sleep, a good novel.  and i think i've found one, American Woman, by Susan Choi.  inspired by Amused's second journalsite, ex libris, i am thinking of starting a second journal also.  a book journal, or at any rate, a journal where i can put my poetry and writing sites and blogs, literature and language, where i can talk and think about what i am reading, sometimes what i am writing.  a name for it has even floated into my mind.  so far it's only an idea.  but i think it's what i want to do.  news at eleven.  or, as it happens.