May 4, 2011

Glenn Gould muttering on the CD.

Though it’s barely evening and one hates to tempt the gods, today has been wonderful. Excellent workout at the Y in the dark of the morning, studying Italian on the cross-trainer, then a chit-chat with TD over coffee. Went to the studio and painted, painted, painted, for the first time in weeks. I was filthy and happy. Stopped by Jesse Israel’s and bought roses and put them into the ground. Rains have brought the garden to riot, all the nine-colored iris and all the red and pink and white peonies, all the roses (I mean all) including the wild bramble in the backyard that has been struggling in the shade three or four years, now a bridal veil of white. His flowers are small, but have the most excellent scent, I think today, of all things, sweet and bracing at once, like the air off a fleeting god. Pulling runners of Virginia creeper out of the ground, thick as thumbs and twenty feet long. Meant to be cold tonight, but not cold enough to ruin everything. Even the holly puts forth goldy-greeny blossom. I hesitated to read my e-mail, lest there be something sour there to spoil the savor, but I did, and there was nothing.

JD the composer hallelujahs his approval of my work from New York. Waiting for the next step of that . . . .

The children murdered at Kent State would be old now. Exactly as old as I.