March 15, 2012

My day “off” quickly disintegrated into a series of chores, and not all of them accomplished. Finally got my tax material to Carol, certain that an important document will arrive today and I’ll have to make the trip again. The day was so brilliant that I worked in the garden, quite brilliantly, weeding, and readying the water gardens for re-installation. My body aches with that good ache. A new resident mockingbird scolded and shadowed me all day, insuring that I was not going to go astray or impinge on his prerogatives. There was so little winter that we’re not ready for full spring, but here it is, blue, gold, aching red. I planted, evidently, rows and rows of deep blue hyacinth, and then forgot about them, for here they come in phallic glory. Jolene had mentioned she wanted new furniture for the studio library, and I had said, off-handedly, “have mine. I’m sick of it.” I didn’t quite expect her to take me up on the offer, but she did, and in the end I didn’t care. Jinx brought his truck and we loaded it all up and now my living room is an echoing open space– which I rather like, all things being considered. I promised her the piano, too, and that goes when she finds proper movers. What do I think about that? I am not anxious at all to get new. I think I will live in the space for a while. It will make an exit easer, if it comes to that. Spent part of the time preparing an application for a new endowed professorship at the university. From the first keystroke on paper I knew– understanding academic politics by now–that the recipient is already decided and known, and yet I continued, trying to convince myself that what is realism is actually cynicism, and I should forge ahead in the face of it. I’m the one whose enthusiasm makes the sham look real to those who are not watching too closely. Whatever stooge line begins to form, I get into it. Will I allow my inner voice to stop the futile effort? Of course not. The deeper inner voice I have listened to since boyhood will urge me stupidly forward. Rehearsal at Central Methodist for the Chichester Psalms. Their director, Russell, is precise, balanced and personable, and had drinks with us at Avenue M afterwards. I thought he was beautiful close-up, though he had struck me as a little–shiny–from a distance. Must be the lights.