August 19, 2012

Good painting early yesterday morning. I arrived at and left the studio before anyone else was there. Did some radical weeding and mulching. The roses in the backyard are in their sweet late summer bloom. The heartiest are those which were crushed by the sweet gum, rejoicing in their lives, I suppose. The tomato which was crushed and which I almost uprooted is the size of a small tree, bearing miraculously.

An agent asked to see Riding Fun House. Two days have passed and I have done nothing about it. The matter is so weighty, so fatal that it is almost impossible to act.

Kids came to the door at twilight, canvassing for Obama. For once I was able to say to someone exactly what they wished to hear.

Lovely photo on the Internet of a very young Bill Clinton shaking hands with President Kennedy.

After SIX tries, each frustrated by some one-of-a-kind glitch, did get Funhouse sent to New York. Whatever attributes you assign to the gods, you must include “cruel” and “wasteful.”

Evening. Spare drops fall on the ponds and the birdbaths. I hear it increase as I type, from the lightest rain imaginable to a sturdy downpour.

I remember when my mother’s feelings were hurt, when she had suffered an unkindness, she would retreat to bed. My father-who was generally the cause of it-- called it a tactic, but I don’t think it was. I think it was irresistible. I bring that up now because I realize that the cause of my extreme exhaustion is not physical at all. Unkindness, as it did to her, knocks the wind out of my sails. It drains me so that it is physically hard to function. It is not a tactic because I have nobody to move with it, and the One who is responsible for my sadness will not be moved by it if he is not moved by simple justice.