September 28, 2007

Wondrously quiet night. The singing of the night insects is even quieter than quiet. Giant spiders weave between the hollyhock stalks and the angles of the porch.

This morning I took my car to the Exxon station to have a headlight replaced. The mechanic asked, "Where do you live?" and I looked up, ready to point, but the pale ghost of the moon hung low in the west, dimmed on all sides by the brightness of day, and I was still able to say, "There, under the moon." Tonight I sat on my couch and looked out where the pale gold moon rose right in the center of the window. I watched him climb until he went over the roof. Maybe I’ll walk in him tonight.

I phoned father the day after the night of tragic assumption. He was chipper, happy, as healthy-sounding as I ever remember him. He said he was glad I was coming home, for then I could help him buy a new computer. This is not a man who is planning to die. I didn’t regret Ireland, though. For many days I had awakened with a strange anxiety, palpable in my chest. On the day I decided to go to Akron next week rather than Dublin, the anxiety went away. My nerves knew something I did not.

The Ganymedearts web page announces The Loves of Mr. Lincoln for October 20. Jack and Bruce phone from New York to say that Edward the King is a go for the first of May. I have five copies of A Dream of Adonis, each of which I have given away.