January 29, 2018

Rose and baked maple cookies for my evening class. They gave me a list of the various things they’re allergic to, and I was able to steer clear of, at least, peanuts and tree nuts. Later: Made it through class energized and on top of the action. I think the THING is over for a while, though it hangs in the background like one dark cloud high in the north.  Quite good work from the students.

January 28, 2018

Invited Sam to come with me to NM run-through Saturday afternoon. Glad I did, for many reasons, but also to confirm that what I saw was sweet, lyrical, innocent, heartfelt, adept, all the things I was hoping the production would finally be. Deep sigh of relief. Tech, of course, is still a catastrophe, but one carries a measure of faith for just such things. Pizza down the street afterwards– the first time in a decade or more when I actually had pizza at a pizza place, the “drunken clam” version having proved irresistible. I admire Sam for the wide open road before him. Told him–without expecting to–of my hurt at the prevaricating betrayal of the cadre of students from last semester. We agreed that two things astonish us– my astonishment being greater because I went longer without seeing them coming: the first is that women, most women, most women whom one knows, perhaps the great preponderance of women, have lived lives of threat and peril and open fear, unable to move freely through their own destiny because of the fear of violence or ruinous partiality on the part of men. Not feeling these things myself, I didn’t credit them until “Me too” fell like rain. The second is how American institutions and American prestige can fall into ruin in the course of one year with the right bad man with the right wicked party behind him. The rhetoric of the Republican Party is not different from that of the Gestapo; the rhetoric and tactics of Trump are not different from Hitler’s; the difference is that the tattered remnants of those democratic institutions prevent, so far, actions fit to the words. The last time I remember feeling such sea-change was the day of the Kent State murders.

January 27, 2018

Donated three paintings to the Cantaria auction. One is experimental; two are among my best. This is one of the days when the pond is clear as glass, and all its gliding hidden life exposed.

January 26, 2018

Made it through rehearsals. Bought groceries. Real work is still beyond me, except that I did write a poem.

Want to contact Stewart and ask him Why the Hell the Recessed Lighting? One of 2 things (the other being too few electric outlets) that irk me about this house.  Changing a spent bulb is an ordeal, one which only my tiny hands make possible.

January 25, 2018

Rose, after extended and lovely dreams, feeling quite well, except for an achy, itchy leg. I see that the diseases and infirmities of age will be attended by isolation– if I had died on day #1 of this nobody would have found me yet. Still. . . one moves forward, providing as one can. I think of the flurry of hand-wringing and sighs and telephone calls when someone in the choir gets sick. Someone ELSE in the choir. I suppose I project a different aspect, somehow.

Final Title IX report from the university watchdogs, absolving me from violation of THAT, whatever else my sins might be. The report makes it unmistakably clear that it was a set-up:

In addition, the student group itself provided a wide range of disparities about Dr. H’s general behavior, but mirrored accounts of discrimination on the basis of sex. They often shared items with me that had nothing to do with Title IX and that seemed frivolous in regards to the creation of safe spaces vs. academic freedom. Although all of the students were in one or more of his classes together, none of them reported consistent behavior by Dr. H in regards to any discriminatory remarks or language. I found the accounts of the seven students left me with more questions than answers. For example, despite having a written charge of specific behaviors alleged by the students, when questioned in person, the stories did not match up and/or were not consistent. When I questioned students about these inconsistencies their responses tended to be, “Oh yeah, that’s right, I forgot about that”; or “I don’t remember exactly”. While both of these responses are reasonable expectations given the alleged behavior occurred over the course of a semester, it lacks support to meet the preponderance standard specifically related to Title IX. Given some of the stories shared with me by the students and the language used, it is very possible that the students believe faculty should be absolutely objective at all times in the classroom. I find this expectation counter intuitive to the tenants of academic freedom and a liberal arts education.

I figured this was pretty much retribution for my catching them at cheating (the plaintives are EXACTLY the same group as the cheaters, plus one bewildered boy) , and though I thought I treated that with saint-like forbearance, they clearly thought retaliation was necessary. The report goes on to say that, basically, I’m a lout, if a lout within the law. What a waste of time it all was. What hurts is the image of them getting together to concoct a story that they assumed would do me real harm, when there has never been a moment when their welfare was not central to my concern. Sometimes–nay, often-- irritating their privileged and ignorant sensibilities is central to their welfare, if they could allow themselves to believe it.

Q has been blabbing to everyone–or at least someone-- the disasters NM has been going through. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Wiley has agreed to do a blurb for NSDL. Now I’m consumed with anxiety that he may think it’s stupid.

January 24, 2018

Made it through my long day (in this case, 10 to 8:30) not quite unscathed. Rick said, “You’re really not looking your old self.” Had to ask a student for a ride to my car– having had to park a long distance away, and finding that parking place by getting out and removing the orange cone that was– for no particular reason I could see--blocking it. Removed the next one too for the student who pulled up behind me. The normally humane campus is derelict when it comes to parking, blocking off scores of faculty parking according, evidently, to whim. Meanwhile, easily 100 “visitor” parking places stand empty. A good fairy should come and deprive them of their orange cones. 

The audio was off in my classroom and I had to tell them all the Irish stories I had planned elaborate videos for. Maybe it was better; maybe it was worse. How to tell from their faces?

January 23, 2018

Met my playwrights last night. The class is twice the size of the optimum, though I’m glad for the interest in playwriting. Hard to know how to deal with that, other than to beg everybody’s patience. Arriving forty minutes late was a big husky boy in a skirt who wanted to be called Scarlet. Not only that, but he announced his need to be warned if the talk were going to be about rape, because he goes into a panic attack if he hears harsh talk on certain subjects. He acknowledged a disconnect between the attitudes of students about such things and the attitudes of the faculty, anticipating correctly that I would consider it a cheap way of controlling discourse, a kind of emotional blackmail. He assured the class that it was completely physical and completely beyond his control. Turbulent class, but generally a good turbulence.

Very extended and elaborate dream of my going to a small town in Ohio and buying a big downtown hotel. I had to borrow money from my mother to do it. I remember the heat of desire in my heart when I finally decided I would do it. The hotel looked down on a typically derelict Main Street, but the lobby was lofty and gorgeous, all in green and pale marble. One window had been broken and white doves had gotten in. My future employees were happy with the development, and were already suggesting menus for when the dining room reopened. I spent a long time choosing fixtures and planning for the future. Still smiling when I woke.

January 22, 2018

Two night without the shivers. Excellent. Ate two bowls of chili. Excellent.

My friend Donna Barnes has died in New York. She chose me to help her to the bathroom during our meetings after her stroke. She was both kindly and intellectual, a less usual combination than one would hope. I will miss her. Certain vistas in New York will always make me think of her.

The heat of mutiny had pretty much inflamed Night Music, the gentlest play on earth. I both understood it and did not. The actors were right that it was, ultimately, a misinterpretation by the director vehemently enforced  causing the problem. . . but, you would have thought she was selling children into slavery for the rhetoric flying on email. I did float the idea that I could take over, but that notion grew more horrible as the hours went on: I don’t feel well; I have two night classes, and two other nights previously committed to rehearsals; I hadn’t prepared for direction. . ..  Well, we rehearsed in my studio yesterday afternoon, and I believe all thing turned out well. C backed off from her absolutism– I did my “this is a playwrights’ theater, where the playwright can expect to have his way, right or wrong”–and the actors put in their best efforts I had yet seen. Even Q the Vehement seemed to be satisfied. Is it solved? Is it resolved? It seemed to be, and with a solution ten million times better than the firing that seemed our next nearest alternative. I think it’s hard for a director such as Q to work under another director. The flaw of people who are nearly always right is that they nearly always think they’re right. My own cherished gift of shutting parts of myself off to suit the occasion does not seem to be general. Very pleased with N in the role of Jesse, lyrical and spontaneous and sweet and. . . he knows his lines. 

January 21, 2018

Slept without my overcoat over me last night. Still pain in the transition from lying to standing, but less. I will write this bout down as having lasted eight days. It was the worst of recent times. I think it came upon me like that because I misinterpreted signs, taking for general malaise what was, again, quite specific. Mother and Uncle Richard both had this, so perhaps it is the family curse and I should have been affording it more dignity.

A chose my happy frog on lace for her wall.

C came and took photographs for his book covers.

Q phoned and said the actors will quit if Chris is not replaced.

My printer gives up the ghost.

Carlos said, “I can’t wait to see the reviews of this book.” I say “Me, too,” but just as he’s adding, “It’s very weird.”

“You mean because it contains talking cats?”

“Oh, that’s only the start of it.”

One agent said the same thing as she declined it, “but I believe that your eccentricity is genuine . . .” I didn’t know what she meant and don’t know now. I don’t see how Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers is eccentric or weird in any particular way, either style or plot. But if it is and I don’t see it, then all my writing is as well, and past hope of correction.

Can’t quite go to church today. All the standing and sitting would be hell. Pretty much everything is hell.

AG and I watched rehearsal finally, and I didn’t see the same problems Quinn did, except that the tone is much, much too heavy, Hamlet rather than Midsummer. S must learn her lines. She’s at the same place with that as she was when I saw the scene more than a week ago.

January 20, 2018

Early Saturday. Rose determined to clean the abhorrent cat box, and clean it I did, but I suspect at the expense of the rest of the day.

Email from Q that the condition of Night Music continues to deteriorate. I can’t imagine what I can do but elbow into the room and fire the director, and that would have repercussions one cannot fully imagine. Am I able to direct a show right now? Would the Theater side with me or with her? Are the techies dedicated to her or do they too feel the problem?

Meeting people at the studio in an hour. We’ll see if I can drag myself up that winding stair.

January 19, 2018

Slept eleven hours last night. Interesting dream before morning: I was staying in a hostel in Dublin–one where I customarily stayed, apparently-- when I realized that the duffel I’d left there for storage the year before was gone. The shower was out of service. When I went inquiring after the duffel, I returned and my present backpack, with wallet, passport, etc, had disappeared. I was told by the manager, whom I suspected of the thefts, that he had to ready the room for new customers. So there I was on the twilight streets of Dublin absolutely helpless.  I was so deep in the dream I thought it was real life. When I work, and realized none of that had happened, I was baffled for a while. Bafflement came before gratitude.

Bestirred myself yesterday and got a bad haircut (but from a boy who did not try to engage me in conversation, so all was well) and then went on to senior seminar. It was a good class, and worth the effort of getting there and sitting through it. Students can be quite sophisticated if it is allowed, or expected of them. Two of the complainants from last semester are in the class. Uncertainty was in their eyes– did I know? If I knew what would I do? Had I been confronted? I knew, and what I would do was nothing. Not even try very hard to accommodate my presentation to their sensitivities. Their thought is so unformed and prickly it’s like a thistle complaining that it wasn’t taken fully for a rose. By being covert they had lost both tranquility and the opportunity for new understanding. Blake puts secrecy beside jealousy among the bars of hell.

Blue golden day outside. The day might be endurable.

January 18, 2018

Now in the phase of burning pain in the infected leg. It comes and goes, but is especially interesting when I stand up after sitting or lying down. The leg resembles pink crocodile skin. Still sleeping gigantically. It is 14 degrees, but it looks like school will be in session for my 3:15. The second tub of chili (hopefully better than the first) has been thawing on the counter for two days, and is still a great red pepper-studded mountain amid a thin red sea.  Not in a hurry to eat anything, though. Trying not to observe how completely I have been left alone in my distress. It must be what I have earned. Made tea, but it is all the way downstairs.

January 17, 2018

Limped my way toward the light. Projectile dry-heaves entered the mix on Sunday night. Inflammation appeared in the leg, as it customarily did but hasn’t in a while. Made my way to MAHEC, to the doctor, not expecting to learn anything new, and having my expectations met. Went to my fist classes, which I managed. By the time 7 PM hit I was literally spent. Came home and slept. Rose. Sampled and threw out the frozen New Year’s chili. Tried to convince, along with the actors, A that Night Music is in trouble, the director having misinterpreted everything interpretable. I pride myself on being able to director-proof a work, but there is a level of stubborn perversity that exceeds my prophetic skill. A sends a note meant to be reassuring, but really isn’t. I picture myself stomping in and bellowing, “You’re fired! I’ll direct!” But, finally, I don’t have the energy for that or what would follow. This was meant to be my art opening in Mars Hill. It could not possibly have happened. The whole city is closed down by snow and cold, so I do not feel singular.

January 14, 2018

While I was watching Jurassic Park on the TV, a dome of lead fell on my head, and that was a terrible attack of phlebitis, this time appreciably without warning. For about four hours I was as sick as it is possible to be. I could not heat up my core, and lay in bed under coats and blankets convulsing with shivers. Of course the shivering set off muscle cramps, so I lay there in the dark murmuring, “have mercy, have mercy,” which is all I could think to do amid the variety of agonies. My body felt so heavy that I almost literally could not move, so when I HAD to move– say, to the bathroom– I pulled myself along the walls, trying to keep my knees from buckling. Thank God for the dicloxycillin, whereby I am, if not quite restored, no longer imagining (perhaps longing for) my own imminent death. At one point in the fever hallucinations I thought I had four bodies and I had to take a pill for each one. The over-dosing probably ended this more quickly than it might. So far 2018 has been wondrously eventful.

January 12, 2018

Night, Sleep is evidently truly a go, as the editor is asking me for all the things you get asked for when you’re really publishing a book. Carlos is not only going to use my art on the cover, but he wants to use my art on the covers of others of his books– perhaps since I said he could have the images free, for an art credit. Still too suspicious to be truly ecstatic, but also wish to shy away from ingratitude. Dancing on the razor’s edge.

A while back I had several poems accepted for an anthology called Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse. The book arrived today, with my name and bio in the contributors’ list, but not one poem of mine actually in the text. Some spectacular proofing there.

Meeting with J, our Title 9 overseer, to see if I violated people’s sexual rights in my class. I think we decided not, but who knows when things are truly over? I understood the accusations and how they came to be. As I hold none of the opinions the seven students attributed to me, the issue was pretty much perceptual– sensitive students unable to read irony or humor, assuming my perspective to be other than it is, or simply having been allowed to be too fragile to take a challenge to their world view. I can certainly be more careful with that, though one would have hoped college would be the place one might stop explaining irony.

Deep rain, sort of sweet now but edging toward the next onslaught of cold.

January 11, 2018

Postcards for Night Music arrive as I have to dump the postcards for Night Wings. About $1000 spent on a show that didn’t happen.

Deep, cold winter rain. Had to discard my pillow cases; they were spattered with blood.

Lightning-strike of an email from Black Mountain Press:

Dave,
So this is now going to press, but the last revision could not be downloaded. Also it would be better to have a word doc file.
Let me know if you can provide that!

Carlos

This followed by questionnaires and sell-sheets and what have you. I am almost afraid to type the words: Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers is to be published.  Cannot quite get my head around it.

Within our darkest night, You kindle the fire that never dies away.

January 10, 2018

Something in the prospect of my NOT having a show made yesterday one of the powerhouse painting days of my history. Several old works brought to burnish. Kenn called and put the final end to it. The room won’t be dried out enough to start rebuilding until after the show was meant to open. What do I think of this? I think I could talk myself into feeling worse than I actually do. Steve says, “It will give you time to prepare for a better show,” and it will.

Note from a functionary at school that she wants to talk with me about “creating a potentially hostile or unsafe environment based on issues that are perceived to be sexual.” Since I have exactly no idea what that’s about, the meeting should be enlightening. Whatever it is, the vacancy of my recollection signals that it was someone’s hurt feelings (or malice) rather than anything intended by me. 

January 9, 2018

Looked out the window to see a blaze-head pileated woodpecker drinking at my pond. It would have been worth it only for that. He refused to drink along with the crows, but flew away when they arrived, and came back later.

I’d had anxiety about my physical ability to complete the work necessary for my art show. But, coming to the hour, I hauled all the frames up into the studio, and spent the morning- a happy morning, actually–framing. Bought the wrong frames for some pieces, the wood of which is far too thick. Those can be painted on the side and look just as well. As soon as I came to that realization, out came the acrylics, when I quickly learned the pipes in the building were frozen and, for the moment there was no water and acrylics could not be used. I left it for later. While I was eating salad at Asheville Pizza, K phoned me. He said, “I have some bad news.” The bad news was that a pipe had burst in the Arts building at Mars Hill, destroying the gallery. “The walls are buckled, the floor is buckled, Shannon can’t get into her office. . . “ I think I was understanding, though I couldn’t keep the words, “But I spent $700 on framing!” from coming out of my mouth. He said he’d probably need to cancel all the shows this semester. I went home and lay down, which is how I handle such things. The argument in your head is interesting: you outline all the ways in which the event is absurd or wasteful or unfair, but then realize it’s already happened, and the superiority of your interests turns out not to matter. I think this is how people must feel when their houses burn down: well, that was unfair. Rose from my nap to take another call from K, in which he outlined the ways in which this might yet turn out well, or less catastrophically. Whatever happens, I know he spent his day fighting on my behalf, which is well and joyful even if nothing else is.

Went to rehearsal in the evening. Two of the cast are already excellent. One is working too hard (I found myself wishing he would throw away a line here or there). Chris is an excellent director, detailed and precise, though she makes the mistake of working beats hard and neglecting the flow of the scene. Most beats will fix themselves if the scene is allowed to take shape.

The actor who is supposed to have the nice singing voice has the bad one. Can’t be helped.

M hauled out the keyboard I had given to the theater. She said, “it’s time to use our crappy keyboard.”
“Why do you say it’s crappy?” I inquire.
“Because someone gave it to us and it can’t be very good if someone gave it to us.”
“Well I gave it to the theater, and I wasn’t aware that it was crappy when I did so,”
She tried to walk her original comment back, but I didn’t make it easy.

January 8, 2018

Yesterday a spectacular blot. There was a great pause in the action at morning service because whoever was meant to read the New Testament lesson wasn’t there. I read in my email this morning that it as me. My AOL apparently delayed the message.  Almost ludicrous waves of muscle cramps, in the legs, hands, chest. Even gulping down liquids didn’t seem to help, until the middle of the night. One cramp in my left leg started an edema leak that lasted the evening, me with a towel wrapped around my wet foot. Went to a production meeting at the Magnetic. The cold was so great that my muscles tensed and I had to stomp around the room fighting a vast cramp in my thigh. What must they have thought?  Leaving, the cold clenched the muscles in my chest and it felt that I was having a heart attack on the drive home, though I wasn’t. Outside, a building in the Arts District was mightily aflame. The Internet says it was the house behind the Grey Eagle. For a moment I thought it was the Phil Mechanic.  So tired and lightheaded I can’t imagine dragging the frames up to my studio and doing the framing I absolutely must do today if I am to be ready for the show.

Interesting discussion at the production meeting. What the designer plans is in direct contradiction to the mood of the play, as expressed In the play. I decided to say nothing, in the name of artistic autonomy, and because it might eventually turn out to be lovely. The original plans were big and elaborate and left no room for the actors actually to act. Then the discussion was how to fit the play to the needs of the design. I should have stayed home. I’d be sure it would all come out well if the past proved that. What the past proves is that success can come even when the design remains problematic. 

January 7, 2018

Woke with the thought, “God has an essential misunderstanding of my character.” Makes me wonder what I was dreaming about.

Temperature inching up to 16.

January 6, 2018

Feast of the Epiphany.

Still unable to get to the studio, or to endure once there. Polished Nighthawks, tried to find homes for scripts, joined NPX, the new play exchange. I am not sanguine about the prospect, but what can be lost except time? In a nap dream I was a kind of entertainer that made his song appear in immense figures in the sky. People loved me when I sang. I was happy.

Intended to attend Night Music rehearsal, but awoke from my nap already 40 minutes late.

I made some sort of mistake. I have too many poems ever to effect or control their publication, too much fiction ever to effect or control its publication, too many plays to submit or keep track of them. I thought creation rather than distribution was the place to put my energies, but experience has rendered that an error.

January 5, 2018

Eleven degrees with a windchill in the minus column when I left for the Y. Invigorating. Good work-out. I must examine the truth that my anemia lightheadedness does not affect me when I’m doing a weight set. The rest of the time home, writing. Nighthawks is achieved.

January 4, 2018

Bitter cold. For a while there was snow, but the sky through my study window is blue. I have a much painting and framing to do, but there’s no point going to the studio when it’s this cold. I wouldn’t be able to work more than a few minutes. Wrote an artist’s statement for the show:

NIGHT WINGS: artist’s statement

When I decided to start painting, I had been a professional writer for many years. I’d learned the craft of writing the usual way, through workshops and long practice and eventually a Ph.D. I wanted painting to be different. I wanted my painting to be spontaneous and innocent, as my writing had been careful and studied, every word taking into account a long and various tradition. I was not going to do the same thing standing in front of an easel as I did with my fingers poised over a keyboard. I bought some paints at a craft store and started  in. I copied Otto Dix and Dominico Veneziano, because I had books with their work in them. I watched my friends who were artists at work, and listened when they talked about technique. I suppose I’m officially “self-taught,” but what I think of are the many who taught me without knowing they were doing so. 
The pieces in Night Wings are often technical experiments. I have used for support, in addition to canvas,  plywood, drywall, scrap wood, used canvases and panels left in the Phil Mechanic by departing colleagues, sections of torn-apart furniture. Many of the works have collage elements or texture achieved by sand, acrylic medium (painted over in oil), onion bags, art paper, T-shirts, and in two cases, choir robes absconded with when the Cathedral of All Souls got new ones. Look for the button holes still on the paintings.  
I have no idea what to say about the “themes” or meanings of the paintings. I am a very literary person, so narrative is never far from my artistic sensibilities. I noted at one point that though you cannot write a sentence without your brain being fully engaged, you can paint for hours without having had a single retrievable thought in your head. This is a very great blessing. This is also to say that though anyone would name me a “symbolic” painter, the symbolism is not necessarily communicable, except through the painting. Several works address themes from the bible or mythology, but beyond that, you’re on your own. During most of the time represented by this show, I was (apparently) obsessed with birds. I don’t remember intending this, but, when I opened my eyes, there they were, flocks of birds all perfectly identifiable from any field guide. I am happy to let them speak to me through time. 

Flocks of birds in my yard, robins and starlings mostly. Realized my pond and its pump may be the only source of liquid water in a mile.

January 3, 2018

Nighthawks nearing completion. I try to anticipate what Q will say. He quizzed me in the car once, clearly easing toward the question of whether I am gay. I never thought it was a question or a secret. I assumed student gossip covers all details, real or supposed, of professorial lives. I’m glad, though, that nothing is quite obvious, that there is a veil of mystery, however unnecessary, covering a few details.

Went to the Racquet Club today and had a better workout than yesterday, as well as the reward of living sculptures, one with unkempt blond hair and a mien of lordly seriousness.

Joined the ASPCA, smitten by their miserable TV ads.

January 2, 2018

When I went out it was 8 degrees and the full moon sinking in the west was huge, golden, tremendous, and beautiful. I’d thought at first it was dawn in the wrong part of the sky. Went to the YMCA downtown, which is rebuilt and enlarged. At the door handsome Nat called me by name, and I took that as a propitious sing for the ensuing year. Did a feeble workout, but less feeble when one considers I haven’t worked out more than once or twice since Ireland. The fact is that now I feel excellent. You feel bad and you postpone the workout, forgetting that except in severe case, a workout always makes you feel better. I need a reminder in my life, someone to repeat to me the lessons I already have learned. Still much to be cleaned up from the aborted party. The crows pick at the bread and the squirrels at the cake.

A New Year

January 1, 2018

Mozart from the radio downstairs, a New Year’s festival of composers who lived in Vienna. The day is bright but wondrous cold. The stream my pump makes in the pond is slush, while the rest is frozen.

Last night’s New Year’s Party– which, to be clear, was suggested by other people– turned out interestingly, in that not one guest came. Not one. I estimate that $300 worth of food, drink, and other supplies is laid up downstairs, much of it to go to utter waste. Won’t even mention the labor of preparation. The supplies of liquor will be used through time. A giant tub of bourbon/milk punch sits in a pot on the back porch, probably a lovely mellow slush in the cold. Beside it is a cooler filled with redundant ice. I did freeze as much chili as I could get into the fridge.  On the lawn at dawn landed the homemade bread and the white cake with lemon filling, for the delight of the crows. In the fridge is a casserole which may have significant shelf-life, and two cheesecakes, so exquisite and so labor-intensive that I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out right away. I know have enough paper plates and such to host an Army battalion picnic.  Ice had come onto the streets, so the TV said. Each phoned with their horror story about driveways and slopes and I said, “Oh, that’s all right, be safe!” I went driving to test this, and couldn’t make myself skid even when I tried. But, everywhere might have been worse than the blocks around my house. I cleaned up and was in bed by 10:30, my regrets, if they existed at all, subdued. The last few awful things that have happened to me I have greeted with a breezy “oh well!”  Is this the mellowing of age, or giving up? Circe gazed up at me to say, “What was all the fuss bout?” She loves company and was anticipating high times. I will put this down as the last disgust of a disgusting year, allow 2018 to be still pristine. 

New Year’s Day itself: wrote a little, cleaned up the non-party mess a little, watched most of the Harry Potter films on TV. I tend to find Harry Potter forgettable, so each viewing is a surprise.