Last night my brain would not stop fretting over repetitive unnecessary not-even-real-worries, such as "How will I arrange the chairs for the conference?" and "Where should I put the chairs?" and "Chairs! Think about them!" and "Dawn, do not forget chairs!" and "For god's sake, the chairs!" and and and. Finally I got out of bed and came downstairs to the couch, hoping that a change of scenery would distract me from the stupid chairs, and eventually I did fall asleep there, and slept late, too, waking to a sudden crash of rain and the thick confusion of Why Am I Here? but blessedly without a single chair in my thoughts.

Yesterday I cleaned the house if not thoroughly then pretty damn close to thoroughly--floors washed, windows washed, the downstairs well dusted, bathroom scrubbed to the baseboards, even the basement stairs vacuumed. This morning everything inside still smells soapy and fresh, and it mingles with the rain-scent rising from the pavement and the coffee steam rising from my cup, and I am happy to be sitting here beside an open window, surrounded by soft air and clean order.

Today I'll mow grass, do some gardening, hang sheets on the line. I'll pack clothes for the conference, and T and I will make crab cakes and scallop ceviche for dinner, and I'll sit around and read Keats's bio and Elizabeth Bowen's The Death of the Heart and maybe take a nap and probably go for a walk . . . What I want is a slow day before tomorrow's flurry kicks in. What I want is to not think about chairs at all.