July 1, 2009

I walk out into the garden late in the afternoon when I get home. The eight foot mulleins will be so bathed in pure light that they look unreal, or like vast towers of an impossible city seen from a great distance. Everything will be still and radiant and holy, and I will wonder what my duty toward it all is. I think I should simply stand in the light, unmoving so long as the light itself does not move. I should. . . plant myself. . . and look. . . the afternoon light itself a prophesy, a revelation, and though in a language I do not understand, I should pause and take in every word. Evening now. I have filled the birdbaths. The aphids have not coated the stems; the slugs have not delved. I feel blessed. I feel I should stand in the garden and worship, or if not worship, watch and listen. The yellow of the mullein flowers is more vibrant in the dimming light. I am going away for ten days, but if I stayed it would be well. I could stand in my own garden and stand in a far, strange country.

Ireland is the ostensible destination, but when I get back to New York what I have chosen as my career will more properly be engaged. Reading of Saint Patrick’s Well at Penguin Rep on Monday night, then Jack B has organized a preliminary reading of The Loves of Mr. Lincoln for Tuesday. I don’t know what a preliminary reading is, but I suppose I’ll have to be at my best, and that I’ll be disappointed, but Jack and Bruce will tell me it came out exactly right regardless of my impressions. Have begun work on Earthly Power, the second part of the Lincoln trilogy.

Brought my painting The Garden of the Benus home to hang on my wall. I used to love the meaning of my paintings, but now, thanks to Jason, I can love the meaning and the body of them as well.