A Man for almost all seasons...

Pretty morning. A flowering of new things. Would have been nice to hold on to the cool a while longer, but the afternoon heat drove it all away. Still, three manuscripts read, more good revisions on "Man of Letters" and an unexpected conversation with an old friend.

Was told the temps in the Midwest were near ninety today. Here, too, but without the humidity comparisons aren't fair. I remember those old days as a kid, swamping through summer, the north woods sticky, smelling of mud and rotting leaves. No wonder I adopted fall as my favorite season.

Met an old timer from Minnesota in the barber shop yesterday. Told him about the mayfly infestation that used to turn Dubuque, Iowa into a dadaist work of Meret Oppenheim proportion. They would hatch on the river overnight, and invade the town. Blanket everything like fur. The next morning, the city would send out a fleet of snowplows to scrape them from the streets. The old guy nodded. He'd seen them, too. "Fish flies," he said.

Feel as if I'm playing catch-up, and I think it's because I've been stymied by the progress of some of my manuscripts. But even that, I can't trust. Solution is to keep plugging and not look back. Trust in what lies ahead.