October 28, 2007

Schubert in the morning darkness, turned down so only the crescendoes can be fully heard.

I was reading in one of those magazines where they have pithy quotes from celebrities, and one for myself jumped into my head: “I never felt that I had the lead in my own life nailed down; I am always auditioning.”

I suppose the new furnace is working, because I am not particularly cold as I write, but sort of not-quite-uncomfortably cool. The registers are never warm, and I hear nothing from the cellar, where I was used to the comforting rumble of fire and iron and then the tick of warmth in the coils. I’ll miss that. It was like having some big, useful animal dwelling under me. Of course, it is possible the furnace is not working and it is an almost-sultry autumn morning out there. Whichever it is cannot be worried about today, and that is the final comfort.

Late night. The moon just now rising, late and dented. The concert went well enough, and gave me as much pleasure as any concert every has. Am I more willing to be amused these days? Less frightened to be content?

Mickey decides she can’t do Isabella, and I called Annie Welty to see if she wants to step in.

I don't really want to do anything but write and paint and sing, maybe act, when there is some proportion to it. . . the rest is a kind of game. . .something to get through as nobly as possible. I would say something else if I weren't so tired, but I might still mean this.