July 15, 2016

Murderous truck kills scores of people in Nice.

Tensed with anxiety when I heard the mower on the lawn yesterday, but it seems to have committed no trespass this time. Small fronds of swamp hibiscus push up from the wounded stalks.

Did well on stage last night, so my day will by buoyant. We have a few reviews. As I said before, I’m content just not being singled out for awfulness. Prepared the guest bedroom for David and his sweetheart. Have the fixings for cookies, which I will either make or not.

I covet the monkey puzzle tree for sale down the road. Where would I put it?

Sick last night, with the second stomachache I remember in my adult life. The first was in Denver. I’m blaming the Irish cream. Dreams during this troubled time involved my arguing vehemently with–somebody–that Christ had indeed not died for our sins, that his death had nothing to do with my sins, that a God who would require or even suggest such a thing is not to be worshiped. I would make that argument awake, so it surprises me for it to invade the other world. Maybe too much association with Jesus on the stage--