February 16, 2018

Spring-like temperature, spring-like chiaroscuro of cloud and shadow. Golden crocus join the purple in the lawn. Spears of daffodil leaf. Cleaned up the grounds yesterday, where someone had thrown a bewildering collection of shot bottles of booze.

Drove to the new Flood Gallery out on 70, to see where Carlos wants me to have my show. It’s squalid, but I wonder if I should mind. Maybe squalor is meant to be my metier.

The hemoglobin seems slowly to be righting itself. Or, I seem to be righting it by the incessant gobbling of iron.

Took a king cake to my Irish Renaissance class for Mardi Gras. We sat and talked about Ireland with Mardi Gras beads around our necks.

Crept to the Magnetic to see the new iteration of Night Music. Q’s insistence that it was “better” than before had raised my hopes that it might, at least, be sufferable. Even that modest hope was destined to be dashed. It was awful. It was worse than I expected, and my expectations were low. The new actor was exactly wrong–he would never have been cast in an open audition-- and read imperfectly from the script, with great passages flubbed or paraphrased.  It had gone from an A to a C, with all the magic drained away. What could Q have meant by saying it was “better”? That he and S had finally gotten their way in all matters? It was, to me, an act of vandalism, unnecessary and therefore unforgivable. I promised to attend Saturday, but I don’t know if I will be able. Back into sadness mode. Back to the desert of consolation.

Waiting for Tarzan the Tree Man to look at my pine and see what can be done to keep it from demolishing things.

Weeping at every mention of Parkland, Florida. The next people who need to be shot are those who say, “it is not yet time to speak of gun control.”