May 24, 2017

The catalpas are in bloom. Catalpas mean “Ohio summer” to me. They are also unfulfilled longing, for every nursery I turn to says they’re “invasive” or “out of fashion.” Maybe I’ll travel with a spade and dig one up. Went to the studio, did more work than would seem to fit into the hour I spent there.  S was sad and so hugged me. I am his dear friend when he is sad. The days divide so that I forget I write in the morning. I open the notebook to find pages needing transcription onto the computer. Some of them are good, some to a degree I hardly recognize. Outside, the amazing rain keeps coming down in its amazing volume. A giant white rose rides the front garden like a ruffled moon.