Sunday evening

Sleepy. Our socked in summer fog lifted, shortly after our visitors left, before noon, and the day turned gorgeous. John could not resist going out on the bike, and I, still in exhausted introvert recovery from people and cleaning and cooking and eating and drinking (not to mention taking care of the dog) just stayed home. But I could not stay in either, and found myself weeding and working out front and doing my share of sweat equity, though you could not say that it actually got what you would call hot.

Sweet potato chips with beer later, during the cocktail hour, and then a glass of pinot grigio with dinner (eggplant cutlets with broiled mozzarella for me, and a really nice salad). The Maytag clothes dryer, 22 years old, keeps shutting off, and besides, sounds like it's drying sand when it's on, which John says means the bearings are shot. We haven't even recovered from the tv going out; it's in the shop again (third time). But, I don't know, I'm not going to let a dryer get me down. Seems like there are more important things.

As I said on FB, Harvard Review #40 came in the mail yesterday, with my poem "A Study in Chiarascuro" on p. 96, and I'm pleased, a poem I liked, though the poetry group basically did not, so HR's taking it was some vindication. It's an odd poem that I'd rather not explain, one of those poems that feels like someone else wrote it.

But I honestly could use something good happening to me, for me, now: a poem accepted, a possibility of a pay check. John's got a part-time gig teaching photography for the city, starting in August. Other things too; he's on a roll. Maybe it will be my turn soon.