Fire to Fire!

Well, Mark called to tell me he was a National Book Award finalist, minutes after I landed at Hartsfield. I was already on the Metro, riding toward downtown, and I had to restrain myself from slapping the ceiling of the train in joy. I couldn't imagine a sweeter welcome to the city. And all I can say is yay! Yay!

Yay, too, to brilliant friends Patricia Smith, Salvatore Scibona, Richard Howard. The brilliant Frank Bidart! The brilliant Marilynne Robinson!

Yays all around.

I was writing a different post in my head on the plane, but that will have to wait till later. Our colds are both with us, but I couldn't imagine more optimum conditions for dealing with a cold.

And yet I'm glad I'm not reading tonight. Mark, however, cannot say the same; we're being picked up to go to the keynote event in less than 35 minutes. At present, the poet lies across from me on the bed, sleeping on his side, resting up for the proceedings.

It's sort of hot here, but I'm a hot weather kind of person. And they put us up in a happily funky hotel, in a happily funky neighborhood. There's a good coffee bar a block away, and a vegetarian soul food restaurant. I like Atlanta. Even if I feel vaguely woozy and dopily out of it.

Now to iron a shirt, always a task of monumental concentration.