Not a drop of rain yesterday, but the soaked earth is reverse rain: as the sun heats, it draws out the deep and murky scent of water, which lingers in the air as more than humidity . . . a tropicalia, here in the little northern city by the sea.

But, yes, there was sunshine, and thick heat too, a real summer day; and I'm very glad that Tom installed the air machine last night. Otherwise, our sleep would have been no sleep at all, upstairs in the little sweatbox.

Today will be another such. For the moment the machine is off, windows are open to cool morning air and birdsong, and my bare shoulders are perfectly happy. Since returning from the Frost Place, where I tossed and turned every night, I have been sleeping with the intensity of an old cat. I can't tell if I feel refreshed or just sodden with sleep, and I'm sure the weather is adding to the confusion. Intense rain, followed by intense heat: my body has forgotten the sensation of briskness.

Today I hope to finish the editing project on my desk. I want to go out to my writing salon tonight. I might wash some windows. As you see, I am so non-brisk that I can't even plan in chronological order.

My notebook is packed with drafts from Frost Place lessons, but I've barely touched them. It's not that they're bad; it's more like my brain is short-circuiting and I can't figure out what to do next.

The doldrums: that's what Coleridge calls this state, when he writes about the windless seas in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I might be there. I'm keeping a sharp eye out for albatrosses.

On Tuesday I did watch a hawk snatch a bluejay out of a maple tree. It was quite alarming. Not an albatross moment, but surely some kind of omen.