November 18, 2011

Mr Newhouse died in Akron. He was a sponsor through part of my Eagle Scout progress, and I remember a banquet we attended together, where he talked of his love of 40's hits such as “Deep Purple.” The contrast he made with my own father was remarkable, clearly, as I’m still remarking upon it. Someday I’ll take the time to recall all the random people who did me good during my childhood, for no conceivable gain but, perhaps, remembrance such as this decades later.

Went to bed with phlebitis last night, an attack caught early enough to be mostly a dull ache and almost comic exhaustion. The fever gave me vivid, repetitious dreams of considering the purchase of a mansion and a huge estate on a mountain in Pennsylvania. Did go to the Y in the morning, did work out feebly. Went with MP to see his property out near Sandy Mush. It requires too much either for my body or for my wallet, but in some ways–size, for instance–it is near the mark. The plots in the country around here look like salamanders or lightning bolts, never rectangles. M says it is so everybody gets a little bit of bottom land. Came home and slept fiercely for the rest of the afternoon, which is not what I was planning for my day almost off. Theater tonight. The test will be if I stay awake when every cell is crying “Sleep! Sleep!”

I think at least part of my gloominess the past few days was that I was getting sick. I’ve noticed this repeatedly in the past, and so sometimes make the connection, but nearly always a little to late to dodge some passage of grumpiness or annoyance.