I feel as if I had been away. People have been coming and going, and we have been up the north coast and down the south coast, yesterday, where it was so windy that we were sandblasted standing on the beach. Seeking shelter, we ended up at the defunct Pigeon Point Lighthouse sitting on a broad weathered wooden bench under the old fog horn, staring out to sea. The horizon wrapped itself around us, and even the rocky outcrops seemed to be rushing towards shore. Other visitors set up tripods, though it wasn't clear to us what they were photographing. We crept to the edge of the platform and looked down: the rocks, we hadn't noticed, were crowded with basking harbour seals. We huddled on our bench again. We went to Duartes' Tavern in Pescadero for supper at 4 pm. There seemed to be a lot of other people eating supper at 4 p.m.

Thursday, over to Berkeley for a reading with my friend Chana Bloch at Moe's: four floors of books, the last place in town. We gave a cheer for Moe's. The master of ceremonies had read all our books (there were three of us) and spoke about each of them. Afterwards a member of the audience came up to me, and asked, Was it important to me that young raccoon are called "kits," not "cubs"? Publisher, please note; I need a new edition with "kits" ("Private Property") instead of "cubs". Only in Berkeley, said a musicologist friend, standing by.