I am sitting here in my couch corner recovering from an extremely unpleasant dream about cleaning my parents' house, and am glad to be awake and listening to crickets and night sounds. The windows were closed all night and the machines roaring, but this morning I've turned everything off and opened the house to air, such as it is. The heat is going to kick back in, and I know I'll have to close the windows again within an hour or so. But for now I can listen to summer.

Yesterday our test kitchen/poetry lab/whatever-it's-called had our first meeting, and it was so good. Afterward my brain was pinging with excitement: I think this is going to be a thrilling experiment . . . once a month, four busy minds bouncing ideas off each other. Really, my poetry cup is overflowing now: Thursday-night generative sessions, reading projects with Teresa, now this discussion group . . . and none of it can be categorized as teaching or obligation. After so many lonesome writing decades, I seem to have stumbled into a happy ending.

Today I'll work at my desk, clean the upstairs rooms, get my hair cut. I'll go for a walk early, before the day heats up. Eventually I'll make ice tea and shrimp salad and maybe a batch of Thai summer rolls or a pitcher of gazpacho.

All the world's a stage.