October 6, 2015

Terrible dream sometime last night. There was a big political rally on a green hill, some righteous cause. But I said something that turned everybody off, and spent the rest of the dream trying to explain myself, and even though I knew I was right, I watched my friends depart from me, one by one, even one who was supposed to be my lover. Deepening the distress was the fact that I had acquired a beautiful green table, and when I was left alone, there was nobody to help me carry it home.
   
I keep looking around for the cappuccino I already finished.

As dawn broke I was enlarging the back garden to plant two kinds of lilies, toad flax, trillium. Transplanted a tulip tree out of the garden to a place in the lawn where it may work out its destiny for the next two hundred years.
   
We have gone from judging art on the qualities of the work to judging it according the identity of the artist. On one level, I don’t know how to dispute this. I learned one way; that doesn’t make the other way depraved. And yet, I wonder how long we will be satisfied with bad poems coming from good people, wrong plays written from the right perspective? I remember a colleague’s insistence last year that the Arch Brown Foundation only consider the work of women. She almost said in so many words, “in case a man’s work is better and we have to give the prize to him.” A woman won on her own merits that year, so the issue subsided for the moment.
   
Bought two enormous pumpkins for my front porch. Couldn’t have lifted them had they been any bigger. Happy as a kid.