December 13, 2014

Days of writing. Dryness of soul. . . a good dryness, removed and unencumbered. I feel like a Hagar who knows where all the fountains are.

Was it my grandmother’s birthday? I think so.

My anxiety is that the sidewalk men will take out my row of hollies: the feature that makes the front of the house liveable. They stand a good way from the street, and the workers’ progress has been relatively non-invasive to date, but there must be something to fill the worry vessels. I don’t see how the sidewalk can get past the giant pine, either. Ninety years untouched, and they get all motivated when I move in. Their progress is not swift, so perhaps terrible weather or bankruptcy will come upon them.

Parties tonight.