August 13, 2012

Kevin the frog is calling from his pickerel weed this morning. I know he was gone, for I looked, in some desperation. But now he is back. All is strangely well. Can’t account for the oceanic sense of relief.

Visited the studio yesterday, painted well if briefly in the empty, sunwashed building. Then back into the garden, where I reduced a long swath along Carolyn’s yard to order. I hope she sees it and is pleased. I think now liberal applications of mulch is the only thing that will keep things under control. I enjoyed the spontaneity of open ground, the idea that anything might come up. The problem with that is, everything did.

A K called from Jack of the Wood, and we had a get-together as he passed through town after a strenuous summer of theater. His energy continues to be cyclonic, his enthusiasm slowly polished by experience. I bet on him as the big winner among the young actors I know, for he still associates skill with character. Olympics closing with DJ, then. I slept through most of it.

Infection today. It hit hard, without the usual warnings. I think it is held at bay.  Unusual activity for all that, back to the Y, visit to school, getting the cars inspected.

Finished a story about a pianist.

Diet since I came home, mostly tomatoes.

Lingering evening, almost silent, even the cars on the street hushed, as if moving through water.