Late Night.

We've had spring set in for kind of semi-certain here in 27401, more than cool enough in the evenings, finally, to prop a box fan in the window and try to pull what's out there in here. We've come through our stretch of summer. There's pollen thick enough on the porch to leave footprints in it. The yard's giving way to fescue and dandelions. The tulips came up. There's dianthus trying to make a wee comeback. Daylilies in for the second year, and twice as thick. Peonies. Bud sets on the hydrangeas. It's all coming in. All of it. And the mint in the side yard is everywhere except for where it's meant to be, everywhere except where it was planted last year. No matter. Mint is mint, and it's in. I'll thin daily for whiskey, work harder than that if and when it takes over.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday like Viewmaster reels of what April can be. This on the heels of baby-bringing tornadic thunderstorms. Welcome, EMWW. Sleep tight over there. Be good to your parents. Already they're so good to you.

The forecast these days, for its part, is a ball of nerves. The interns sleep like shit. The computer models are all over the map. The simple plan, the same plan as always, the only one that ever works: to bed, and right now, so that coffee and a dogwalk might be that much closer. Maybe head for the shed after that. Too much in this novel. Not enough in the next one. Not enough anywhere else, really. I haven't sauteed a vegetable in several days. I sat on the porch this evening and wept. I have lost my mind, or I'm losing it. Here is how it goes: I could use another storm. For now I'll take this cool air dragging through the open dining room windows, will head upstairs to see how AMR is doing with Edward James Olmos, see if she's kicking or if she's sleeping through the night.

The man wants to sleep and wants to hit his head again and again against a wall, Stephen Dobyns says. Why is it all so difficult?