Got our hay in yesterday; got some of the lawn mowed and did a bit of weeding. Keeping up feels almost impossible, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. Summer vacation has started for the boys: sleeping till 10 in the morning; aimlessly riding their bikes around the yard; abandoning Monopoly games in the middle of the living room floor. . . . It's the time of year when the meaning of accomplishment becomes skewed.

This week I'll start compiling my writing exercises for the Frost Place conference. And Tuesday I'll read in Dover-Foxcroft, a mere 35 minutes from my house. My last reading was in Manhattan, when life in Harmony seemed very far away, possibly even an invention of my imagination. I felt (metaphorically) like Thoreau or maybe, more accurately, like a Sasquatch, stuck all over with twigs and leaves and bird droppings. That won't be the case in D-F. After all, I read books, goddamn it. Worse, I write poems. Oh, the embarrassments of culture.

In short, no matter where I am, life is nerve-wracking. Nonetheless, when it comes to readings, I seemed to have conquered my performance anxieties. I may feel like a freak, but I can still do the show. I think that's because it feels so good to say the words.