I dreamed I went to a poetry reading and slept through the entire thing. Then I woke up and realized I'd actually slept solidly all night instead of blinking awake pointlessly at 3 a.m., which is my usual wont. A good result, really, but the catch is: this evening I'm going to a poetry reading by the same poet who was in my dream, and now I'm pre-embarrassed about sleeping through it.

Ah, serpentine shame--how it coils and tangles. No need to really do anything wrong. My brain will invent the appropriate scenario so I can feel guilty anyway.

This morning I'll be back at my desk, digging into a fat new editing project. Then in the afternoon I'll try to catch up on weeding and planting. Around the edges I'll go for a walk, hang laundry on the lines, deal with conference paperwork, and in the evening I'll go listen to Christian Barter read from his new collection. In print this sounds like a productive day and maybe it will be. But I am still wrestling with state of mind, trying to keep that day out in the canoe alive in my thoughts even as the glum wanders back in.

Glum is a precise word. It sounds exactly like what it is--a gluey cloud. 

Well, I am not generally a depressive. And I know I am not actually depressed now. I feel plenty of sunshine; I've got plenty of energy. I'm merely glum about a few things.

I am also not glum about a few things. Guess what? No more squirrels inside the bedroom wall! Guess what? An editor wrote to me about a submission and said, "This is one of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever read." How can I be glum in the face of such fortune? I am going to stop immediately.