April 1, 2015

Early afternoon, and already I have had the prince of days.  Rose very early and was at the gym when it opened. Did my weights and my feeble pool laps; poured out stress into the steam room. Then I sat in the gym lounge and wrote two poems, and the sun was not yet up when I had finished. Remembered how much I like institutional coffee whitened with that powdered creamer than could be made of anything. Then to the studio, where I worked hard and well and was thoughtlessly happy. Then, when it was warm, home to heroic gardening. Set the angel’s trumpet and Christina’s milkweed into the soil. Dug new space, fertilized the roses; watered everything. If I can stay awake, the afternoon is devoted to writing. 
   
Looked 205 Harvard Place up on a real estate site. It looks very much different from when we lived there, except the bathroom, which seems the same, and the magnificent banister that was made, apparently, for a far more elegant house. What horrible memories! Found Richard–the main cause of the horribleness of the memories– in an interview for a Syracuse paper, in which his Narcissism is as monstrous and as unconscious as ever. He tried to Facebook friend me once, and I wondered if it were contempt for me or the most exquisite lack of self-knowledge that would permit him to do such a thing.

Typos are proof that God doesn’t love me.

A pileated woodpecker crossed and recrossed the sky above my yard as I worked.