The weather's suddenly gotten so cold again. Yesterday was raw and blustery; and even I, dedicated outdoorser, couldn't find the gumption to weed or mow in a damp wind. Then, of course, the rains erupted and I just barely snatched the laundry off the line in time. Last night I lit a fire in the stove, and this morning the furnace has kicked on. It's hard to believe that, calendar-wise, we're on the cusp of summer. The view looks like mid-May but the air feels like the first of April. We've had maybe four balmy days over the past two months. And yet everything is growing beautifully. Clearly spring knows what it's doing, so I will not complain.

Instead of working outside, I spent most of the day at my desk, plunging through a fat stack of editing, though I did take time out for a coffee party to talk with faculty about their conference plans. Today I'll be back at my desk, but maybe this time I'll also talk myself into doing some afternoon yardwork in the cold.

I've been reading Colson Whitehead's Harlem Shuffle and very much enjoying it, though I ought to get back to my Shelley assignment instead of wallowing in novels, as is my wont. I enjoyed the recent New Yorker article about the New York Mets, and then last night enjoyed listening to Mets radio as the Red Sox beat them. (The Mets are my second-favorite team, and I could also be talked into rooting for the Tigers in the postseason. I fear that the Red Sox will not be an option in that regard.)

I do wish I could sleep better. Even when I've managed to doze off, I've been beset by peculiar linked dreams centering around various central Maine women of my acquaintance who've always made me feel nervous and awkward. Plus, I lost my glasses in a car that might have been a DeLorean.

Well, so it goes . . . dream life and waking life are both imperfect, but at least in the awake version I've got my glasses on.