Another hot day on the horizon, and the air machine is chugging away, making a small dent in the torrid heat. With one tiny A/C and two artfully positioned box fans I can keep the house about 10 degrees cooler than the outside world, and considerably less humid. The house climate's not perfect, but it's not bad, and I slept decently all night, even occasionally under a blanket.

I finished up my editing project yesterday and my next assignment has yet to arrive. So, till then, I'm unemployed, meaning that today will be a housework day, an errand-running day, a reading and writing day. There's plenty to keep me busy: bathrooms, floors, windows; sheets and towels and sweaters; notebooks packed with poem-blurts; the sad and lonely end of Anna Karenina.

My sister seems to be making a spectacular recovery after her emergency eye surgery, despite a dire prognosis, so that is a huge relief. My children are cavorting in foreign lands. Everything I wrote at the salon felt like it was channeling Lewis Carroll, but oh well. Some days are like that.