August 25, 2010

Golden waterlily gleams softly in the twilight. Was pruning and weeding when the insurance man visited Carolyn. He was very skinny and awkward, like a character out of Flannery O’Connor. He looked at my yard and said, “Oh, you favor the natural look.” Then he praised God, extensively, for the abundance which caused me to have to be out there pruning and weeding.

Patrick and Co finishes up the trees, and light strikes places where it has not struck in this century. Ferns turned their fronds sunward to say, “What the hell is that?” Patrick smelled like the richest perfume when he was done with the pines.

DT is killing himself with indignation. I am customarily indignant, but he makes me look like a little bodhisattva of calm acceptance. He is indignant with his colleagues, with his bosses, with people no longer present to arouse his judgment, with the architecture of the new-built farm houses, with the speed of the cars entering the highway, with the flowers selected for the village gardens. I do not always know what standards are being violated to arouse his indignation. I tell him to calm down, to be at peace, and I don’t recognize my own voice saying those unaccustomed words.