May 11, 2011

Waking in a world that may take some getting used to once the sun comes up. Last night came a tremendous thunderstorm. I heard a sound like a machine, like an engine, but it was generalized across the whole sky, and when it hit the trees I realized it was wind. Rushing about closing windows, I lost track of the sounds. One noise may have been a lightning bolt, for I saw a fire, and the utility pole outside Zach and Kelly’s was enveloped in flame. I called the fire department, and they came, and what their lights revealed was that a huge pine had come down across Lakeshore, blocking the street, and bringing part of an old maple down with it. I had seen a car backing up on the street, but didn’t know until then why. I watched the firemen clearing the trees. Behind them lightning flashed and flashed on the horizon, and for a while the rain was harder than I have ever seen it before. They had to stop and huddle in the truck until the air was again more air than water, continuous silver wires shivering and attached to the sky. The firemen were heroic and diligent, and I watched them as long as I could before exhaustion got me. Whether it was lightning or wind that downed the trees, the electricity is back on now. Birds are singing in the darkness.

R asks me to critique his show. It is a book of art and poems. A disinterested critic would not have much positive to note and yet all is imbued with such sincere and lovely spirit that a friend doesn’t know exactly what to say. R is a saint, and sanctity does not necessarily express itself in art–perhaps never expresses itself in art-- but rather in grace of action, which he has abundantly. We spent an evening at the Curve– where I had not been before, and which I like– and I was happier in his presence than I have been in a long time. His grace of spirit is matched by beauty of person, and one thanks one’s luck at being near him.

Already set a lovely rhythm for the summer. I recall this rhythm from last summer and from the sabbatical, early waking, exercise and work, so much time to do it in that every moment is a delicacy. I wonder how I let it get shattered. It should be possible to work school or anything else into it, but somehow it got superceded by fret and exhaustion. The days aren’t different, but my mind is. Western man is genetrally vulnerable to the power of the Outside, and I am more than most.

Another thunderstorm passes over even as I write.