November 2, 2012

People on the roof yesterday. They found a hole hidden under a tile, which, I hope, explains the all but immortal leakage. Took the red leakage bucket away. I am a man of faith.

Cold. I realized how cold it was at the Y when I noticed myself taking off layer after layer in order to put on my work-out clothes, which were themselves almost too chilly to endure. I still have garments left over from Syracuse, and so am prepared for the cold if I think of it in time.

My poor dear New York. It’s hard to imagine such a citadel of civilization being vulnerable to a mere hurricane, but the photos and news reports tell it all. Selfishly, I hope it’s all wiped clean by the time I get there next week.

Night Music splendidly advertised by the Art Center in Carrboro.

Poor Frank is fighting with the landlord over the blinds I bought for the windows of the Apothecary. The landlord isn’t even committed to his position, but fears criticism from his Board that he allowed something to separate that precious space (heretofore empty and unused) from the life of a neighborhood which no longer, with any substance, exists. They’re blinds, which open and close, not walls, I want to say.  It’s good that sweet calm Frank is fighting the battle rather than myself, for I would long ago have laughed in their faces, not because their concern is misplaced, but because the particular application of this concern is ludicrous. The great enemy of non-profits is their Boards. I would have installed the blinds without asking, knowing it was both best and inconsequential, allowing the storm to hit, waver, blow over without delaying me, but Frank is not nearly so far down the road of Macheavellian cynicism as I.

Realization that when I am involved in controversy, it is usually over statements I have not made and opinions I do not hold. Generally I have been as clear as I possibly can be. I blame the tendency now to feel that an instant emotional reaction is equal to a considered analysis. Blasted as a bigot in Facebook for saying that, sometimes, Christian proselytizers mean well. On those almost infinitely rare occasions when I find myself in the role of a confessor, I do. You have tried everything and are still miserable. Try this. 

White privilege! shriek my students at some passage of society which displeases them. They are invariably white. And privileged. Someone has taught them there are certain points at which analysis might stop and hysterical sloganeering begin.

Dark. I’m going to assume it’s a beautiful day. When dawn comes–I’ll probably be at the Y– I’ll come out into it and gasp with wonder. Maybe I’ll be looking at the red tree in the Starbucks parking lot which so warms my remembrance.