On the cusp of the morning, I’m stepping into the weather event of the year like an actor moves past a curtain before the audience. And for not money–which is usually why I do most anything. Oh, I’m kidding about the unrepentant materialism. Sort of.

No, there’s truly a higher purpose at work at here. This journey through inclement weather is for love. The girlfriend completes her terminal degree on Monday. Years of effort culminate before her loved ones and peers, which includes some very famous poets. I won’t drop names. They are big, though. I know enough about poetry to be impressed.

Allegedly poets and novelists mix badly at gatherings. Sort of like orange juice and gasoline. Add the right amount  of Styrofoam to the mix, and the resulting combination makes for a great defoliant–though its all rather toxic for those scrambling at ground zero. Perhaps the volatility reflects the essential rivalry between the two forms; performing either well means acting at cross purposes.

Good poets encapsulate the essence of humanity within a page, while novelists unintentionally–and for some by practice and design–say little of real consequence in four hundred.

Can’t speak for any other novelist, but I get along with my poet just fine.

I’ll be back on Wednesday. Unless New Hampshire or New Jersey is under an avalanche.