By three o'clock on Friday, last week's dragons had been slayed, and I shut down the computer with the satisfaction of knowing that next week would start where I wanted it to and not in reaction to something someone else started.

A kind of social weekend, not entirely relaxing. I saw friends, got up early to take photographs and stayed up late to finish off the roll. Red was my assignment. My favorite color, but it's occurrence trite within the city. I struggled to find novelty. I did my taxes and slept late. I made dinner and watched Dexter. I didn't write—too tired and not feeling well. My allergies, see, take the energy from me drip by drip. So I didn't go to the darkroom either. But I did go a for a short run, before the allergies came.

I've been reading on the fringes of the big doings. I have a few color theory books assigned for my photography class that I inch through day by day. And I've been reading Norwegian Wood again—a short, sweet read that I always find different than I left it. I began again because I wanted to see the movie but can't. But I had been longing for it anyway, and the movie was just the excuse. This is not the only book I re-read. I notice that I am increasingly likely to read a beloved book again instead of picking up something new. Yet unread books sit on the shelf or in piles on top of the bookcase or on the floor. If I were to have an unspoken goal for this year, a quaternary effort of some kind, it would be to read a lot and to read things I haven't read before. This morning I began Let the Right One in, which a coworker lent me over a year ago. Time to give it back.