Today I start my new copying project: William Wordsworth's The Prelude or, Growth of a Poet's Mind. Wordsworth is not my favorite Romantic; but given what happened to me with Milton, that's the best reason to take him seriously. It seems that our affections are as stultifying as they are glorious. But even though The Prelude is a very long poem, it's chicken feed compared to Paradise Lost; so it doesn't feel particularly intimidating at this point in my life. And since I'm not currently writing anything of my own that's worth saving, I might as well devote my attention to WW.

Next Sunday Paul and I will be leaving for a week on North Haven, an island 12 miles off the coast of Maine, where I will be the school's artist-in-residence and Paul will be an honorary member of the 6th-grade class. We are both excited and a little nervous. Paul has never spent any time in another school, and I have never improvised a week's worth of K-12 poetry lessons. But we are looking forward to the sea and the ferry ride and our little cottage.

It will be odd to be reduced to a family of 2 rather than a family of 4. We plan to play catch after school, and go for walks, and make tiny amusing meals. I'd like to think we'll read Shakespeare as well, if I can fit that giant book into the car, along with the keyboard and the cooler full of groceries. Meanwhile, however, we are embarking on school-vacation week, which, in my house, mostly seems to involve intense bouts of sleeping.

Dinner last night: oven-fried chicken with fried dill dumplings (fatty but divine); broccoli, garlic, and olive oil.

Dinner tonight: James and I are going to watch a Mark Bittman video and learn how to make pad thai. Watching a cooking show is something I would otherwise never do, but J is gung ho; and it's true that he really ought to learn to cook something more than pancakes, waffles, and grilled-cheese sandwiches. (He also seems to have fallen for my suggestion that that cooking can be a method for attracting girls. . . . )