Myth Happens

derspatchel helped me make the charoses for tonight's seder. My brother had to leave early, but not before doing the voice for Pharaoh. He and Audrey alternated the Four Questions, in Hebrew and English; she found the afikomen where he had hidden it. The telling is different every year, but we always open the door for Elijah: let all who are hungry come and eat, let all who are thirsty come and drink, let all who are enslaved be free. My mother's Christmas cactus bloomed.

Right before we ran out the door to catch the 87, Rob spotted the package from Seattle in our mailbox and handed it to me. It turned out to be my contributor's copy of Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books, edited by Bryan D. Dietrich and Marta Ferguson. It's huge. It has an amazing cover and interior art and an excellent foreword and it reprints my poem "A Find at Þingvellir," about Mjölnir. They even got the thorn in the right dialogue font.

I don't know if we're going to be able to see the eclipse. Rob stuck his head out the window a moment ago and reported, profanely, that it's overcast out there. Where the hell is my box of Magic cards? Maybe if I play Blood Moon, the sky'll get the idea.

[edit] Solid cloud-wall. We went out twice. We knew where in the sky the moon should be, but all we saw was light pollution. Boston sky, I am disappointed. You could have showed us something mythic for the spring.