June 18, 2012

D sang the praises of Marty Fullington, late of Earth and Owen High School, calling him a caring and inspired teacher and giving him the credit for the course of his creative life. Such things should be known.

Stack of literary magazines on the living room table. I must have subscribed or entered a contest or otherwise inspired the flood. I read each successively with growing ennui, though often the covers are beautiful, and almost always there is one thing, a poem or the opening paragraph of a story, which is gold.

Did not go to church and did not miss it. Instead, sat on the café terrace, studied my music, read DR’s book, read Book II of The Iliad, skipping most of the Catalog of Combatants. Left when they turned on the damned music.

Sick from last night’s rice at a Japanese restaurant.

Cantaria approaches Denver. The baritones have developed a hard red neck tone, dipthong-y, piercing, and at war both with the repertoire and the other sections.

Bug on the bathroom floor this morning. It looked like a tick, so I smashed it– with the edge of one of those lit mags I just mentioned. It smashed too easily to be a tick, and then I was full of remorse.

Kevin the frog sings his morning song.