February 11, 2013

Dream before waking: some of us were going to a reading by Ezra Pound. We came to the auditorium, and standing at the stage door were several men in suits, including Pound. I recognized him, with a cry. I ran to him, hoping the other men weren’t security, going to shoot me down. Pound looked very tall and thin, but also hale and not nearly as old as he should be. His blotchy face was shining. He was as happy to see me as a kid, learning that I was one of his great fans. He embraced me while we talked, and I was embarrassed that most of his references were to works that I didn’t know– which is to say, works produced after he died.

The roaring in my ears grows worse.

Didn’t notice until it was too late the dug-up ferns beside the plumbers’ trench. My grief was as the grief of a father over a hurt child. At first light I will replant them out of harm’s way. If there is anywhere out of harm’s way.

Constant singing yesterday, church, The Mikado, Cantaria. I don’t think I fell too far below standard at any point, and the E’s were easier to sing than to think about.

Kevin Kelley died yesterday. His was a never-failingly sweet soul. My most vivid recollection of him is his having a seizure during The Beautiful Johanna. This is not a bad memory, though, but an intimate and skewedly humorous one. There was too much pain for too long near the end. So, congratulations, and farewell.

Pope Benedict is to abdicate. This is the Catholic Church's chance to save its own life, or not.