Yesterday, in the annals of weird work week: I printed out several hundred pages of faculty materials, then worked on my party playlist, then mowed and trimmed and did some weeding. Today: a trip to the nursery for compost and warm-weather annuals, then dealing with said materials, then vacuuming out the car, then planning my Monday-night poetry reading.

Weirdly, it's not supposed to rain today, though we're still not forecast to get any real warmth. I wonder if summer weather will ever arrive in Maine. We're in some strange bubble, here in the little northern city by the sea: rain and fog, rain and fog, thermometer trapped in the 50s and 60s, a cool and temperate and slightly mildewy land.

But maybe a day of sun will dry the laundry and unfrizz my hair. The garden is looking so lovely right now, after all this vigorous tending. I will leave it for a week with a clear conscience; and when I return, it will be twice as big. This is the season of Jack-and-the-beanstalk miracles, when a tomato plant grows half a foot overnight.

I am still reading Anna Karenina, still fiddling with new poem drafts. I haven't looked at my new ms for a week or so. It is gestating, I guess. Or molding. Probably I'll bring it along for the reading . . . one more stack of papers to tote. That's what I'll be working on tomorrow: how to organize and pack hundreds of pages of materials, a stack of books, and a suitcase full of all-weather gear plus cute skirts. FYI, my car is very small.

I know I'm talking like I've never been to this conference before, even though I've been directing it for more than a decade. But those three pandemic years were kind of a version of amnesia, and now I can't remember how I did anything in person.