The 37th anniversary.
Tried to go to the studio, but the river road was closed because of flooding. Too discouraged to pick my way through downtown.
Tom is a bachelor for the week, and phoned to make a date to see The Lone Ranger. Somewhat against expectation and hugely contrary to the iffy reviews, it’s a delightful movie. I was grateful to it for making me feel like a ten year old again. I did see, but was not bothered by, its heterogeneity of tone. We still bristle when magical realism creeps into our art, thought we suffer it without comment in our lives.
Between shower and Tom’s arrival, I lay down and dreamed a quick dream. I was walking across a vast empty space in a city, perhaps where several highways systems meet. It was snowing so hard one could not see far into the distance. I heard that I’d left my car running–and the radio on– behind me, so I turned and pressed the key so the car would lock and the radio stop. Only when I turned back did I know where I was going. My sister and her boys, and a few other people were standing in the snow, waiting for me. I couldn’t see them except for vague, lively shapes. I began to move toward them.
War in the afternoon against vast knots of vines hiding beneath the rose bushes. The sheer weight and volume of vegetable matter that can spring up in a few weeks is astonishing. My yard is too high maintenance, far more than a simple lawn would be. I can’t keep up, and don’t know exactly what to do about it. Hire someone, I suppose, though it would seem–and be–a violation to have a stranger creeping among my flowers with hard shoes and heedless hands.
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