February 24, 2012


Undistinguished dawn session at the Y. I thought I might spend the day napping with Palestrina in the background, but that didn’t satisfy as long as I thought it might. Entered one of the unanticipated spasms of housecleaning, coming across letters from agents–some three years old-- raving about this or that book, and from whom I probably never heard again, or else they were scammers and I researched them in time to avert disaster. Threw away hundreds of old photo negatives, but kept the prints gathered in a box, to look at later, or to ignore for another decade. Included photos I had completely forgotten of Marco and me in DC, of The Duck Variations at HART, of play readings in this house, of old paintings of mine, of the summer at Oxford, and many photos of cats, Theseus, Conrad, Jocasta, Titus in the days of their youth. I don’t know whether the photographs made me sad or happy. There are a thousand photographs of flowers, which do not squirm nor make wry faces.

A day of sunshine showers, a spring day in the midst of winter. A clump of pale daffodils are in flower, as are all the Lenten roses.