Wonder why the weather is always the first thing that comes to mind? Because it's easy? Because it is what the world notices on waking? Anyway, it's at least 20 degrees warmer here than in Paris, or even the Vaucluse, but I've got over the shock of California weather, for the moment, and only grumble when it rains and I can't take my bike to go where I want to go, or just for a ride. I am working on 'new' or new-old poems--ones that didn't fit into The Hotel Eden, the title of the new book (August), whose manuscript I sent to Carcanet last week. I should also conclude my Baudelaire, but I'm afraid to, because I know there are changes I'll immediately or eventually want to make, when it's no longer possible. Not finished but abandoned in despair--Valery, I believe.
This afternoon I'm driving over to Berkeley for the Poetry Group meeting: discussion then dinner, picking up friend Peter on the way. My contribution to dinner will be the usual--a tarte tatin, which I will head off and prepare for 8 people, but cook in Berkeley.