November 3, 2010

Remembering things from the journey: how the waters between New York and Newark teem with life, low trees thronged with herons I at first took for debris. In the water were strange shaped I couldn’t identify, until I realized they were herons standing on limbs in the water, the whole heron what I took to be the bills of something huge and fabulous; the great cities beside complicated rivers, the sea opening on the distance. Philadelphia? Baltimore? I never knew.

Frost came while I was gone. Some things are withered, but the roses remain undaunted.

Sad election results, but I suppose not tragic ones. I thought President Obama was doing a good job, and was prevented from doing a heroic one only by the recalcitrance of the Republicans. I never understood what all those angry people were angry about. “We want our own way” is, after all, not a very patriotic rallying cry. My great astonishment is that the GOP didn’t die of mortification two years ago, when it should have done.

First meeting will BG et al at SART, to discuss the Vance play. I was sort energized and sort of discouraged–energized because Vance seemed to have lived an eventful life, discouraged because the number of constituencies which need to be pleased by this project may be unworkable.

Put together my new Kangen water machine and drank the first draughts out of it. The water is, as they say, tingly, and I haven’t had acid-reflux all day, but the experiment is ongoing.

Started to write on Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers this afternoon. What came up was not right. The computer had not been saving my work to that file since September 28. I save after every paragraph, so it was not me. Everything written in the month–since before I went to London-- is lost. I have no idea where or how. Carbonite has only what the computer has. It is all lost, wasted. Someday I should just take the hint.

Oh. . . it’s worse. . . the revisions I made on other texts have also not been recorded since that time. . .