September 1, 2015

Began the first day of my 65th year by going to the Y and having a good weight session. Maybe that didn’t actually begin it. Maybe the dream of memorizing the play began it, except the play I was memorizing in the dream was not the one I should be memorizing in the world. I was making progress, too.
  
Playwrights met here last night, with C as visiting celebrity. He was thoughtful and eloquent and insightful, and I think a perfect class would be he and I approaching the matter from our identical perspectives but very different practices. He said that my ability to tell a story awes him. To me that’s the easiest thing.  I think less about my aesthetic philosophy than any artist I know– and then only when called upon or provoked. Whether that’s good or bad I don’t know.
  
We spent some time regarding the cats, and one of the students said, “Which do you love better?” Before I thought about it I’d said, “the one that loves me less.”

Age means thinking constantly about the things you did wrong, the moments you were awkward or hurtful.  Even moments of triumph reverberate back as mortification, for surely you were as bad a winner as you are a loser. There must have been times when you were gracious or grand, but you can’t think of them. You can’t think of them without being the dog in the corner, lifting a leg, mocking everything.
  
Left last night’s leftovers out for the crows, whom I hear rejoicing in the front yard.
  
Vivid image of a fox crossing the night road with his eyes shining, but whether it was a dream or a sight I cannot tell.