August 2, 2019

In Hiram, in the corner of the Kennedy Center that used to the Squire Hill Restaurant. But which is now the Hiram Bistro. It’s closed, and the tables empty, giving me a place to write in peace. Looking down on the playing fields and the field house, and tress that were but 2/3 their age when I first looked upon them.

In the flight from Charlotte a flight attendant did not show up. Another flight cancelled, saving us, for their team could add to our team. American Airlines.

Dreamed of Hiram last night, except that it was a vast city through which I wandered at night, every now and then coming upon a place important to my history, which were lit as if anticipating my arrival. I was leaving Hiram the next day, in the dream, and wondering how it would remember me.

Thoughts of John Shaw standing on the porch of Bonney Castle, forbidding the bulldozers to tear it down.

It’s a year and a week since I’ve been here. I’m a couple hundred times better off this time.

Passing through the Akron/Canton airport, I remembered that there in the business lounge I began The Falls of the Wyona. Perhaps I remember and note that every time.

Crazy Chicken Sports Bar on Arlington Street. Feeling of knitting together and on blessing, as though I could look out and see the edges of the garment I’ve been weaving, almost recognize it, almost put it on. My room at the Holiday Inn Express looks out on a rough, round pond ticket between it and the traffic of I-77. It is the most beautiful thing.