June 25, 2016

Have been sunk financially by a throng of British rednecks. Bad cess to them all.

The day is nine hours from its end, and yet I have filled it, and I am happy with that. Painted quite well at the studio, commiserated with Stephen, who taught me the term “malicious narcissist” Was it that? Some kind of narcissist. The one who would rather quarrel than not be the center of attention. The one who goes from room to room making herself sure of her reception. The one who recognizes no response but “yes,” and if it’s not yes, goes to war. Celia is one. I am not. Moved on to High Five where I wrote another scene for my tiger play. The Handsomest Man in Asheville walked in and I looked at him. Watered the garden. Ate the first peach off my tree. There were peaches last year but somebody stole them. I have three peaches, and the one I ate was brown in places (I will not be spraying, so they’ll always have some disease or other) but quite delicious. The flesh is paler than they are in the store, or maybe it is the variety. Sat under my silver maple listening to the wind chimes and reading Cervantes. I did what I didn’t do in 24 years at 62– I slept in my own back yard. Practiced music. Now typing in the newly written scene. The fan hums against my ear. If I could have a week of days like this--