April 4, 2013

This begins the time of year when I think my ground is magic. Every flower seems holy; every bird visitor seems an emissary from some better place. I stand and stare at the loam, waiting for the next brilliant thing to appear. Bluebirds in the front lawn.

In a spasm of resolve I got my tickets and my lodging for New York, deciding, since I was part way there already, to continue on to London before coming home. All that is still considerably less expense than my Anatolian rugs, so with a new perspective on extravagance, I feel well enough. Though I do note that when I arrive for Lincoln I will be the only one not being paid, but paying hugely myself. There is irony there that the industry does not quite seem to catch.

Little, diddley meetings and courtesies end up annihilating each day. So much one does not want to do, but wants to have done.

Harsh rain against the southern window. I will not see the moon this morning, as I have the last thousand.