June 21, 2016

Rainless heat.
   
Handsome boys in the cast, which is a pleasure. One is an Irishman named, improbably, Y. I knew he is a Dubliner by his accent and subtleties of his demeanor, and we know a lot of the same places in Dublin. We talked about THE Yeats. He said, “Oh, he was a great man and all, but a pervert.” Me: “How was he a pervert?’ Him: “He stalked this one woman for forty years and then married her daughter.” I set him straight on that. Amazing the bits of information we carry around with us, about half of it wrong. I wonder if Google and the immediate availability of, at least, data, if not truth, helps with that. Yates’ favorite painting is JB Yeats’ The Ring.

Visited DJ, saw my old backyard at 62 grown into a jungle, the trees I had planted or allowed grown spindly and tall with the competing shade. I sort of like it, actually. White moons of the hydrangeas I planted. The volunteer  pine that I allowed from a sapling as high now as my collarbone.
   
Cut the seed wands of the lupines and spread them over the bit of derelict land between the two streets. I have to fight the lupine off from taking over in my garden; they could take over there and everyone would be the happier.