July 25, 2014

I don’t know what I was dreaming, but I woke while the dream was uttering the line, “and we went to live in the stone city of the Nabateans.”

Mother’s birthday. She would have been ninety today– the same age as my house. That is a startling thought, for I think of the house as very old indeed, as something from a bye-gone age, and I never think of her that way. For she never was. She never saw her 50th year. It’s hard for a child not to know whether his mother loved him or just sort endured him. I have always assumed the best, and then let evidence wear down the golden edifices through time. But. . . no matter now.

It is a comfort–amid all these things–to understand that when the writing all but writes itself, then it is right.

The sky’s an odd green-gray before dawn.

Cut down the last of my black walnuts. Its revenge was that it was covered in ticks.