There’s always the first true week of summer— clear-eyed heat, baby birds plummeting from their nests headstrong and top-heavy, the first misfiring fireflies— when all I want to do is listen to Wilco’s “Heavy Metal Drummer” and “Good Feeling,” the Violent Femmes.

“Nothing has yet been released, but something will come; it is tied by its own warning up in the clouds. In this state they will finally return from their walk to the sleeping house. No one will know tomorrow that for a little while this evening they were radiant and altered.”

— Tarjei Vesaas, The Ice Palace

I’m not convinced the best thing in the world isn’t hot spring rain: the short bursting soaking squalls, piled-up clouds chasing the sun (and me, on bike, bare feet) through the overgrown grass at the side of the road.

Loaves of bread baked: six
Dreams about James Mason: three
Stories I’ve finished: zero
Stories I’ve begun: four