I am in lawrence, ks,

battling a semester-long cough and cold while I try to avoid sinking under the endless stream of student papers and poems. It is less cold here today and still windy and I feel so far away from friends and New York and Berkeley and Oakland and the brave occupiers. So I hide in my house, sniffling into tissues and cooking hearty meals in hope of making us healthy.

mushroom sauteed in red wine over farro

I haven't written much here about the occupations, partly because I feel so far away from everything, both through a lack of proximity and due to being overwhelmed with illness and work. But perhaps the larger issue is not knowing what to say--I am in love; I am heartened; I am worried for the protestors. I am aghast at the public and physical demonstration of the state's lack of regard for the preciousness of life, of individual bodies. The cheers from the Republican debates--for the death penalty and for the refusal to medically treat the uninsured--are enacted on the streets where police beat protesters without provocation. I don't have much more to add right now, so I will stop here. In case you haven't yet, you should read Frank Sherlock's poem "Love Letter November 15," posted by Thom Donovan on his blog.