December 5, 2010

Squally snow out of a yellow morning sky. Much digging, much planting, much plotting for what I want yet to plant. Above all, much writing. They have been full days without being happy ones, and I must investigate this phenomenon. Far too much singing. Two days of Cantaria rehearsals (this afternoon will make it three) to claw our way to adequacy. Our most rah-rah members sneak away from rehearsal to have a massage. Lessons and Carols at All Souls last night. I think it was probably lovely; I was too exhausted and grumpy to notice. But drinks with Nancy and DJ and Russell at Avenue M afterward, and that mellowed me before sleep. It’s right to be dedicated to art, but wrong to be dedicated to too much art, which is not dedication at all, but necessarily a kind of dilettantism. I’m lucky not to be accused of dilettantism, that I know of. I’m not a dilettante, but I can sure look like one. I feel like one at Christmas, when I try to fend off everything I can do in order to have a little peace. Anyway, I am grateful the trees and shrubs I got into the ground before the coming of the snows. I am grateful that my invention and my energy do not flag, though one of them wavers a little under the onslaught.

It is almost midnight. A few moments ago I wrote the last sentence of Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers.