September 24, 2008

Casey and Rachel are painting the deck in failing autumn light, the sound of their laughter ringing out in the sweet gum shade. I remember John and Brian and me planting a rose hedge in the rain around Sandy Parker’s new house at Hiram in an age like this one, however remote.

All the gas stations in Asheville are either out of gas or surrounded by coils of traffic trying to fill up, and by cop cars trying to bring order to petrol-thirsty crowds turning sometimes unruly and violent. I’m thankful for the timely purchase of my Prius, which keeps me out of the contest for a while. That these shortages are to some degree artificial and fortuitous is a conclusion hard to avoid. I have never seen anything like it. I’m given to understand that if one drives forty miles in any direction (except south towards Atlanta, which is also afflicted) there is plenty of gas.

DJ found three dead fish in my tank after I declared there were no casualties. They had been dead a while and were quite nibbled-at by their erstwhile brethren. I am remarkable for not seeing things until I am looking for them. For the most part, it is a useful strategy. We went to Black Mountain so he could buy a couch, an enthusiasm on his part which I found a little surprising. I could say nothing, because in the dim light before morning I bought a peridot which cost three times as much as his furniture, and could get lost in a corner of it. We are both happy.

Chose a new, larger studio on the third floor of the Flood. It will be ready in November. I’ll have more light, and yet will be wild with missing Richmond.

I do not recognize myself. My thoughts come and go in a new way, smoother, somehow, fewer snags and less dragging along the bottom. Are they less deep, or less burdened with self-consciousness? I cannot explain it. Neither can I use it yet with entire efficiency.