April 22, 2012 Cool morning. The purple Dutch Iris are in bloom, the white and yellow German bearded right behind. In the time before Bach rehearsal (which went less badly than before) I planted peppers and melons. Drove to Sylva last night to read at the City Lights Bookstore for an anthology I’m in called . . . and love. . . Some of the literary lights of the west were gathered in the upper room, reading our poems to one another. People seemed to know and love my books, and to remember my readings with delight, whereas I go around imagining myself in a well of profound obscurity, so the evening was both a puzzlement and a pleasure. The drive to Sylva was wondrous beautiful, the mountains in their most delicate shades of green, a tapestry of infinite green offset here and there by purple threads of pawlonia. I’m always delighted by Sylva and always vow to spend more time there, but when it comes to it I never do. Woke this morning with a feeling o physical well being, notable because I have been ouchy or sniffly or logy for so long.