There are forest fires in Nova Scotia and the smoke is blowing into the Gulf of Maine, which means that today's air is likely to be hazy and unpleasant. I hope it's not too bad, and that I'll be able to keep the windows open, because it's also supposed to be hot and we had an air conditioner mishap over the weekend. I acquired another machine yesterday but I doubt T will have a chance to deal with it until Saturday. Until then, let's hope that the prevailing winds are on our side.

The neighborhood seems very quiet this morning. Even the birds are subdued. I slept badly, for no particular reason, and am now feeling thick and slow, as if my brain is the texture of leftover coffee in a diner Bunn-O-Matic. I'm sure I'll pep up shortly but for the moment I'm fairly stupid.

However, the day stretches before me--the usual olio of desk work and housework. I'm still editing the novel, still slowly attacking the spring cleaning, still feeling daunted by my incipient poetry collection. After teaching so many manuscript classes, you'd think I'd have that job down pat. But no.

Part of the problem is that I'm in a "who wants to read this shit" hole. I might be writing deftly these days, but that doesn't mean I've got any confidence about audience. So I need to dig myself out of that useless quagmire . . . yet another chore to procrastinate about. There's always some new way to punch myself in the eye.