November 8, 2018

Extra paintings taken off my own wall and to Mars Hill, to fill one great gallery wall, though another is still and permanently black. I do not paint enough. I look like a hobbyist. But the show looks good, I think, distinctive and arresting. I doubt that there will be a review, but I brace myself in case. Praying to the gods that things sell so I don’t have to haul that back up the winding stair.

Jim Nave came yesterday to interview me for WPVM. We spoke first of how we have known each other for at least thirty years. “I know what you were going to say before I asked the questions,” he said, “and I wanted you to say exactly that.” He recited “Prufrock” by heart during the interview– posing, but impressive. Later he said, “I memorized it, but I don’t understand it.” He talked about his friendship with the Hustons, John and Angelica and the lot.  We sat on my picnic table and recorded my crows and my babbling pond for ambiance. I admit that I do not know what will come of anything.

Hoarseness. Sometimes I can speak; sometimes I cannot.

Letter from Blackmore, who’s kept better tabs on my life than I have myself.

The election? Better than one feared, worse than one hoped. It still amazes that, given the choice between a bologna sandwich and a plate of vomit, some people choose the vomit, resentful that no one offered steak.

Students panicky after the second exam. One student with a grade of 51 and some of the most clueless answers I have ever read insists that she was in class and attentive every day. I check the record, and she is right, at least about attending. Why does she then understand nothing? I admit it’s a mystery, and bid her merely to try again.

Picked up my dry cleaning and the dry cleaning lady told me about her son, who had cancer. He recovered, but when he did he was addicted to the opioids they gave him for pain. Eventually she had to evict him. “The drugs were worse than the cancer,” she said.