September 27, 2012

Strong red wine after rehearsal last night, and no recollection of getting home. I thought those days were over.

Lovely Wednesday. Much gardening. I went to the nursery on Merrimon. Unsold tomatoes and peppers still in their little pots were bravely ripening a few fruits. It was the saddest thing. If I owned a nursery, I’d have to have a plot of land where I could plant the orphans, so that they might fulfill their destinies, a little. My own tomatoes yield and yield. I’m almost wishing for a frost. The golden angel’s trumpets are immense. Something in the garden is very fragrant, though I can’t figure out exactly what.

Abridged my Fernando Riel entry–an exercise in futility, as it turns out, for the same notice comes back that it’s over the limit. It’s not, of course. Wasn’t the first time. Arithmetic would seem to be pretty objective, but apparently their interpretation of the number 1300 is unique and creative. I don’t know why you’d advertise an international contest and then cheat the people who try to enter it. Just give the prize to the person you’ve already selected and have done with it. I’m oddly, disproportionately saddened by this. It seemed so right for me. The blocks, as they often do, seem so gratuitous.

Tried to buy a laptop at Staples. "Oh, we don't have that in stock. . . oh, well. we're expecting a new shipment. . . well, Bill is working on that one; there was a bit of a glitch. . . ." Finally walked out, exhausted. Didn't need one anyway.

Received our new contracts. The good news is that there is a bit of a raise. The bad news is that I received the raise of a mediocrity. One is a good sport with evaluations and such, causing as little trouble as one can through the years, letting mistakes pass by, neglecting to assert. Then one day you are reminded why you should police everything, always.

Crackers and blue cheese for breakfast, under a deep mist which, oddly, illuminates rather than darkens, diffusing the lights of the sleeping town.