December 12, 2010

Woke to that strange glow outside that one identified finally as a blanket of snow reflecting the city lights. When I looked out the window, a black-and-white cat sat at the head of my stairs, surveying the night as though he were Lord of the Midnights Snows. I pulled on my shoes and coat and took a walk in the cool, snow-filled darkness. Met four girls–two of them neighbors down the street, two of them sleep-overs-- who were doing the same, though they seemed to be fueled by a night’s worth of alcohol. They took pictures of me on their cell phones. We were the only people abroad. I had been on another route, but turned so I could play with the kids for a while. Only two cars the whole way, one of them, with Indiana plates, shimmying into a turn. I stopped once or twice to see my lonely, surprisingly splay-footed tracks trailing behind me in the otherwise unmarked pre-dawn ivory. “There must be a story there” the writer in me couldn’t prevent himself from saying.

Set up my Christmas tree on Friday afternoon. Bought it where I always do, from the guy at Stoney Knob. I go there every year because I remember some kindness from him long ago, though I no longer remember what the kindness was. I think it’s been two years since I had a tree. The last one I bought in a panic, because Conrad was dying, and I thought he might like one last Christmas tree.

Sang for Thomas Murphy’s ordination. What an excellent priest he is going to be. Wiley came from W Va for it, and we caught up a little. Wiley is the sort of activist professor I stepped back from being almost immediately, regretting it a tiny bit now. But it suits him. He is still young enough for indignation unchecked by irony. He gives Jeff and me credit for his professional life, which I accept, writhing in a mixture of delight and mortification. He is among the best students I ever had. Top ten anyway. He was beautiful as a kid, but now has that handsomeness one ascribes to the fulfilled man.

Final Cantaria rehearsal before dress, which I will miss. C, standing next to me this time (there’s usually a buffer) sings wrong most of the time, then sings wrong sotto voce during my solos. “What the hell was that?” Says I. “Oh, I thought I’d just sing along. You’re singing the wrong notes.” He’s such a jackass that I lose perspective on the whole of it. Maybe that was his intention.