September 2, 2013

Birthday night: Cantaria, and then too many drinks at Avenue M. M couldn’t sit beside P because P smelt of cigarette smoke. M became talkily indignant because C talks all the time. P does smell of smoke and C does talk all the time, but I didn’t know what I could do about it. A smelly singer an octave off in one ear, a septuagenarian a third or a fifth or a what-have-you off in the other. I am not strong enough. The church lawn was thronged with strangers, so I couldn’t bellow GODDAMMIT all the way to the car.

Sufficient number of Facebook greetings to content me. Rain on my drooping transplants.

DJ says that when J’s dogs get loose they make a bee-line to poop in my yard. He suggests I take this as a gesture of approval.

Moment of serene beauty: I went to the mailbox just before dawn. Spires of red and blue and purple morning glory twine up from the street. A hummingbird moth was visiting the morning glories, just visible against the dark gray sky. In the clear above the moth, a bat flapped one side of the yard to another. The night insects sang all around. I stood there a long time with the disappointing mail in my hand. It was so beautiful I wanted it to last forever. It was so beautiful I needed to move on before something fell or faded.