April 29, 2015

Joni Mitchell at the foot of the Rainbow Bridge.

Ghastly rehearsal last night. The big choir is not ready. The little choir sits on its hands, bemused. We retreated to Pack’s Tavern afterwards to drown our sorrows. I don’t think L realizes his conversation is mostly about how things present are not as good as things passed.

Boiled sugar water for the hummingbirds.

Finally went to the doctor, where my darkest fears were allayed and replaced with, “Oh, no, that’s only–“

The novel I’m resurrecting– I think once upon a time I called it All the Tired Horses– is wholly different from current or recent work, calmer, statelier, in some ways more assured and patient. How and where did I lose that? Is it well lost for something else and better? Not? Reading it is like meeting an old friend. Some of the passages are embossed verbatim in my mind. Whatever I was doing, I was doing it differently. A different person was doing it. Was the change growth or deflection? Did I seek to have this published? I’ve no record of it, but I suppose I did, and allowed myself to be carromed out of the market by some cruel and ignorant remark.

Yellow irises are everywhere. I must have forgotten I planted one batch and went out and bought another. Several times.  Started a new fern garden under the eastward pines. Planted eggplants.

The radio promises rain, and I watch for it.