August 11, 2012

Silent morning, my frog well and truly gone, a blessing withdrawn. DJ says an owl lives in a neighboring tree, so maybe that will fill the vacuum, if I ever see it. Attacked the garden yesterday, much work and one layer of the overgrowth defeated in one place. A great harvest of tomatoes. Woke, in fact, making a recipe for tomato soup in my head.

Luggage still astray, though a report filled out, with the maximum of effort. The airline representative in India and I sort of spoke the same language, sort of did not. The two new Jack Yeatses hung proudly on the wall where they can face the rising sun, and Ireland.

Grief at not seeing a heron in Ireland–usually my token that all is well and I shall return. Saw a heron flying over I-26 as I returned from my futile sally to the airport to retrieve my bag. Had to smile.

Excellent reading at DB&N last night. I read from Night, Sleep, which people seemed to like. Excellent work from my colleagues, a SRO house. Around us Asheville was alive and happy, the night streets thronged. I thought, “Am I in Galway?”

Woke this morning with a welcome sense of well-being, even of relief, though I can’t think now from what. The last dream before the tomato soup recipe had me as part of a quartet of actors (all real people in my life) participating in a sort of theater Olympics.  We had gone from victory to victory ( quarter-finals, semi-finals, etc) and had just performed our last piece, an adaptation of a Shakespeare play, which I had done, and the initial word from the judges is that we had won the gold. We were still in our Renaissance costumes.