June 7, 2019

Was in frenzy for several weeks because I couldn’t type right. I’d type extra letters into almost every word, type rows of letters when I didn’t mean to, skip spaces when there was no space to skip. I thought through the passage of time I’d become an incompetent typist. I looked forward to years of laborious writing. In desperation I decided to see if maybe it was the keyboard. Bought a new one. It was the keyboard. Even those of us who, when we miss the mark, look for the error in ourselves have something to learn. Sometimes it is not ourselves.

Rain returns, finally, and now as I hear on the trees, with a vengeance. Got a hibiscus and a butterfly bush into the ground just in time that God might do the watering.

Learned the full Village People choreography for “YMCA.” I just don’t want to. I don’t want to sing in a show choir. I want to do Music.  Checked online and our choreography is more intricate than theirs. Must sleep. . . .

Orange cosmos reseeded from last year enter the riot of their bloom. Nasturtiums not far behind.

Evening ends with a spectacular concert by the Charlotte Bach consortium– somebody like that-- a crisp and pellucid “Magnificat,” a cantata I didn’t remember from before. Bach is a foreign country to me, forever peculiar and great. Handel, on the other hand, speaks directly to me, forever accessible and great. Some judgment can probably be made about my character based on that.

Evening actually ends with cocktails at the Wayside.