April 26, 2014

Woke to a voice out of some immense darkness calling me “The Unloved Lover.” Yes, I thought, that’s it exactly. It’s better than “The Unloving Beloved,” but only just.

Will came over yesterday to talk about 62. He was late, and I worked myself into a frenzy over that. I would make the deal where I had the time I’ve spent waiting for people added on to the end of my life. Anyway, I thought we were going to be finalizing things, when in fact he cannot, financially, finalize anything until August. This was a disappointment to me– me who hates so for things to drag on, and for whom they, therefore, drag on interminably. I had been specific about closing in the spring, but can’t is can’t. I measure the money I’m losing up against the bother not having to put the house on the market spares me, and the deal still seems good, but, again, only just.

Trapped into attending the Lit Club party at Merritt’s last night, but glad after all that I did. Happy time, with good talk, among students many of whom I will not see again, unless I see them walking across to get their diplomas, which, according to my recent record, is by no means certain. Several tables groaned under the food people had brought.

K, who was healthy three weeks ago, now has a stint bleeding slowly in her shoulder, through which they’ll pour the chemo for her breast cancer. People hug her without realizing how painful it is. She comes to me for support, and I’m all jolly and jokey, hoping to God that’s the right approach.