I mowed grass yesterday, and froze kale, and went for a long walk with a friend whose husband has just died of Covid. 

My son left for work, and Tom and I drove down to the waterfront and had a small date at a picnic table. We ate sushi and good cheese and played cards. We wore masks. Dogs barked in the surf.

Back home on the couch, we listened to baseball and ate homemade lemon frozen yogurt. The radio crew noted that this might be baseball's last weekend, as the commissioner is talking about canceling the season, given that so many players are getting sick. But, hey, let's open the schools.

I've been reading Nabokov's memoir of his lush childhood in Russia. So much privilege. Such beloved parents. He hasn't yet mentioned that his father was later assassinated in Berlin.

I keep forgetting to answer emails, acknowledge mail, and all of the other good-manners things I should be doing. I am distracted all day long.

Copying out Blake's poems is a way to focus. Sleep is a drug.