July 27, 2014

Stiff wind coming from an unusual direction makes something in or near the house whistle, high, clear, a little disturbing until I find out what it is. I thought someone was outside my window playing the penny whistle.

Odd dreams, in which it was desperately important to be somewhere, and by no means could one get there. Looking for parking places in a dream. Trying to get cell phone service in a dream. Chris Tanseer was my companion.

Had a ticket for last night’s NC writers’ banquet, but in the end the Airport Road Clarion did not exert enough pull to draw me out of the house, where I, in any case, was hard at work on my Triangle play.

Saturday was a strenuous day first of cleaning out the garage for Will and settling the things thus uprooted, mostly at the Riverside space. Stopped by the hardware store for one plant to fill in a corner, came away with half a dozen, which required the turning over of new garden patches. Two brown irises ready for next year, two blue Japanese irises, a dark red tree peony, butterfly weeds to intensify the already orange-y front garden. The weather was glorious; anything one did in it was blest.

I suppose disgust with bad poets who make themselves public is a minor motif of my life. The problem is that so many of them mean so well.