I’m so glad it’s Friday — and even more glad that I’m working from home today.
It’s not that this week has been terrible. The early part of it was a bit rough, but once I settled into a project and stayed busy, things evened out. Sometimes the best remedy for stress is simply having something meaningful to focus on.
That said, I have zero desire to go anywhere today. I woke up with a headache, which almost certainly means a storm is rolling in this evening. My migraines are usually more accurate than the local meteorologist when it comes to predicting the weather. If my head starts throbbing, you can safely assume precipitation is on the way.
Isabella has already been fed and is currently enjoying her very important post-breakfast nap. She takes that ritual very seriously. Since the house is quiet and I have the luxury of being home, I think I might follow her example and go back to sleep for a little while before officially starting my day.
Sometimes listening to your body is the most productive thing you can do.
I hope you all have a restful, peaceful weekend — whether you’re braving the storm or staying cozy inside.
It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then, the words just… stall. Maybe it’s a bit of stress at work. Maybe it’s mental clutter. Maybe it’s simply that there are seasons when nothing feels particularly profound or pressing enough to turn into a post. For someone who writes almost every day, that can feel unsettling.
Writer’s block has a way of whispering, you’ve run out of things to say. But I know that isn’t true. Life is still unfolding. Thoughts are still forming. They’re just quieter this week.
And maybe that’s okay.
Not every week has to be a carefully crafted reflection. Not every day needs a tidy moral or an eloquent conclusion. Sometimes we’re just tired. Sometimes we’re in between ideas. Sometimes we need to sit in the stillness and trust that creativity, like everything else, moves in cycles.
I suspect the words will come back soon. They always do.
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with something that never fails to bring a bit of peace into my life—a few Isabella Pics of the Week. It’s been a while since I’ve shared one, so here you go. 🐾
Sometimes, when the words won’t come, a quiet companion is more than enough.
There’s something quietly powerful about a shower. It’s such an ordinary part of our routine that we rarely stop to think about how much it does for us beyond simple cleanliness. But the truth is, a shower can invigorate, restore, and even heal in ways we sometimes take for granted.
If you’re like me and usually step under the water first thing in the morning, it becomes a ritual of renewal. The warmth, the sound, and the sensation of water hitting your skin have a way of waking the body more gently than any alarm clock. It’s a moment to start fresh, to clear away the last traces of sleep, and to steel yourself for the day ahead. On mornings when you feel sluggish or unfocused, a shower can be just the pick-me-up you need to get moving.
But showers do more than energize. They can be deeply healing, too. When you’re fighting off a cold or just feeling run down, the steam can open your breathing and make you feel like you’re cleansing from the inside out. After a workout, the water soothes tired muscles and helps your body begin to recover. Even when I have a migraine, standing under a steady stream can take the edge off the pain and ease the tension in my neck and shoulders. There’s a comfort in that simple act of letting the water run over you, as if it’s carrying away the strain.
And then there’s the end-of-day shower. That one feels different. It’s slower, calmer. It washes away the stress, the frustration, the lingering weight of whatever the day has thrown at you. By the time you step out, your body is relaxed, your mind is quieter, and sleep comes more easily. It’s restorative in the truest sense.
Of course, there’s one other thing a shower is famously good for. When your mind won’t stop wandering somewhere it probably shouldn’t, a brisk turn of the dial to cold has a way of bringing you right back to your senses. It’s amazing how quickly clarity can return when the water gets just a little bit icy.
A small word of advice, though: shower sex can sound hot—and sometimes it is—but it can also be risky. Water washes away lubrication, and many lubes aren’t suited for use in the shower, which can lead to discomfort or irritation. Add in slippery surfaces, tight spaces, and awkward footing, and it’s easy to lose your balance or end up with a fall instead of a good time. Sometimes it’s better to keep it simple—washing each other’s bodies and letting your hands roam can be hot and intimate enough all on its own.
Now, I’m off to take my shower. Have a great day, everyone!
Night was done. We rose and after Washing, dressing,—kissed with laughter,— After all, the sweet night knows. Lilac breakfast cups were clinking While we sat like brothers drinking Tea,—and kept our dominoes. And our dominoes smiled greeting, And our eyes avoided meeting With our dumb lips’ secrecy. “Faust” we sang, we played, denying Night’s strange memories, strangely dying, As though night’s twain were not we.
There is something exquisitely tender—and quietly defiant—about this small poem. It feels almost domestic, almost harmless. And yet, in its historical context, it is anything but.
In “Night Was Done,” Mikhail Kuzmin captures a morning after—a moment of intimacy between two men—rendered not with tragedy or shame, but with softness, playfulness, and quiet conspiracy.
The night has passed. “They rose.” They wash, dress—and kiss with laughter.
There is no guilt in the kiss. Only warmth.
But the world still exists outside the room.
The poem turns on that delicate tension between what is shared privately and what must be disguised publicly. The men sit “like brothers drinking / Tea.” The phrasing is deliberate. They perform normalcy. They cloak eros in fraternity. In a society where same-sex love could not be openly acknowledged, “like brothers” becomes a mask.
And yet the mask does not fully convince.
“Our dominoes smiled greeting.” Dominoes are a game, yes—but they are also a metaphor. Masks. Faces placed in order. Pieces aligned to create patterns. The game becomes a ritual of denial, something to fill the space where touch had been.
That line is devastating. The lips are “dumb”—not because they lack speech, but because they must remain silent. The eyes avoid one another not from lack of feeling, but because looking would reignite memory. Looking would make the night real again.
They sing “Faust,” they play, they deny.
“As though night’s twain were not we.”
Twain—two. The night made them two-in-one. Morning separates them back into individual men, back into roles, back into something socially legible. But the poem refuses to let us forget: they were the night. They are the twain.
This is what makes the poem profoundly LGBTQ+. It is not flamboyant or declarative. It is intimate, coded, domestic. It understands the choreography of queer survival: laughter, breakfast cups, games, avoidance, denial. It shows how love must sometimes be folded into ordinary gestures to remain safe.
And yet the poem does not feel ashamed. It feels wistful. Tender. Almost smiling.
The sweet night knows.
About the Poem
“Night Was Done” was written during Russia’s Silver Age, a period of artistic experimentation and aesthetic refinement in the early 20th century. While much queer literature of the time leaned toward tragedy, pathology, or moral warning, Kuzmin’s poem offers something radically different: normalization.
There is no punishment in the poem. No fall. No moral reckoning. Instead, we see lovers sharing tea.
The poem’s power lies in its subtlety. The queerness is unmistakable—two men rising together after a night, kissing, performing brotherhood in daylight—but it is never sensationalized. This quietness is itself political. It asserts that same-sex intimacy can be ordinary, playful, and woven into daily life.
In this way, the poem anticipates later LGBTQ+ literature that focuses not just on suffering, but on tenderness and domestic intimacy.
It is a morning-after poem—but also a poem about survival. About how queer love lives in glances, in laughter, in games, in what is not said.
About the Poet
Mikhail Kuzmin (1872–1936) was one of the first major Russian writers to write openly and positively about homosexuality. A central figure of the Russian Silver Age, he was a poet, novelist, composer, and cultural tastemaker in St. Petersburg’s artistic circles.
In 1906, he published the groundbreaking novel Wings, which portrays a young man’s awakening to same-sex love without condemning it. This was extraordinary for its time. Kuzmin himself lived relatively openly within artistic communities and had long-term relationships with men.
After the Bolshevik Revolution, attitudes toward homosexuality hardened, and under Stalin it was recriminalized. Kuzmin’s later years were marked by marginalization, but his legacy endures as a pioneering queer voice in Russian literature.
What makes Kuzmin so important for LGBTQ+ readers today is not simply that he was gay—but that he wrote love without apology. He gave us mornings after. He gave us tea cups and laughter. He gave us the twain.
And in doing so, he reminds us that queer love has always existed—not only in rebellion, but in tenderness.
Another work week begins—unless you’re in the U.S. and lucky enough to have Presidents’ Day off. I am not among the fortunate, so it’s business as usual for me. Wednesday will be the busy day this week, but unless something unexpected pops up, the rest should be fairly easygoing. I’ll take that.
The bigger story, though, is the weather. We’re supposed to climb above freezing nearly every day this week. Not enough to melt all the snow, but enough to make things sloppy. And since it’s February, this would officially mark the arrival of Vermont’s first Fake Spring.
For those unfamiliar, Vermont doesn’t really have four seasons. We have eleven:
Winter → Fake Spring → Second Winter (usually worse than the first) → Spring of Deception → Third Winter → Mud Season → Actual Spring (which lasts approximately 4–8 days) → Summer (gorgeous) → False Fall → Second Summer (also gorgeous) → Actual Fall.
Right now, we’re squarely in that hopeful, misleading stretch where the sun feels warmer, the air softens just a bit, and you start to believe we’ve turned a corner. We haven’t. Second Winter is lurking. It always is.
Still, I’ll enjoy the small mercies—slightly warmer afternoons, a bit more daylight, the sense that we’re inching toward something brighter, even if it’s two or three fake-outs away. Fake Spring may live up to its name, but I’m willing to be fooled for a few days.
I hope your week is steady and kind, wherever you are in your own seasonal cycle.
Joe
The Closet Professor 