July 22, 2010

Dark of the morning, though a little later than yesterday. Rose at 3 then, at 4:30 today, easing my way back toward North American time. Distant singing of birds.

The cats snuggle and nuzzle, renewing acquaintance after all those weeks.

The moonflowers and the angel’s trumpets, for which I feared, sailed through the drought, the latter now blooming ostentatiously. The biggest weeds were the result of misidentification on my part. A ragweed five feet tall prospered because I thought it was a marigold. A whole plantation of white sweet clover grew up because I thought the seedlings were those of my lovely wild indigo.

10:am, and I’m already on my 3rd T-shirt. Since rising this morning I prepared and delivered the manuscript of The Falls of the Wyona to an agent in Rockefeller Center, chatted with the homeless boy sleeping in his dreadlocks in the Lit Dept lobby, worked out at the Y, had a fit of fury at various ignoramuses reading Michael Furey, weeded about 300 square feet of garden, including the sudden Everglades on the devil strip at roadside, watered said garden, restored the birdbaths, cleaned up cat vomit, showered.