It's grey but bright, rain at bay for now. Last night Greg made breakfast for dinner and we pared leather and in the morning I piled my things into the car and headed north for the summer like a goose. Town is a couple streets, old houses close to the road and painted bright colors, like the Eastern Shore minus the shore. And minus the east.

Separation anxiety is fading into the lilacs and dogwoods, tilted windows and tilted ceilings, etching presses and letterpresses. It smells like old wood and ink; it's silent and still.

I buried myself into a little corner of a little letterpress studio, an L-shaped thing tucked away where everyone will leave me alone, and calculated all sorts of things, fingers flying across the calculator, trying to seduce it into smaller numbers. Paper, copper plates, polymer plates, fabric, ink. I made lists: things to do, things to figure out how to do, things to put off doing. People to call. I met with one of the directors to go over budgets and timelines. The first crisis came (finicky exposure unit) and went (thanks, Luca). The first cup of tea, the first call from home, the first missive from the professor all dispensed with, I settled in to finish the text and write a colophon, which always makes me think of Michael, which makes me think of when I first started printing (bright-eyed, bushy-tailed), which makes me think of Dolphin, and all the rest.

I feel like I should be recasing books, or mending maps, or making four-flaps. There must be pages to cut for Google. I'm a little worried that box I remade last week still doesn't fit. This will take some getting used to.