January 6, 2020

Epiphany. Lilac and cream crocus bloom in my front lawn.

I have been keeping this record for fifty-one years.

Already the meetings are beginning to pile up, and I to resent them.

Vet lady calls with a plan of action for Circe, whose affliction is cancer and whose end is inevitable, but who can be made to feel comfortable for a little while. I don’t know how to ask her what she wants. She wanders into the living room, lies down in the late morning sun, follows the sun across the floor. This seems to me to be joy in something. I say to the Vet, “we’ll do it.” Does she feel miserable? She does little but sleep. Sleep is a joy to me, maybe it is to her? I don’t know what to do.

Twenty years ago I was ill but joyful in Dublin. Ten years ago I was rehearsing The Beautiful Johanna. I think nothing has moved. I think I have gone around in a spiral wide enough to make it look, sometimes, like there was progress.

Curious observation that I have not felt inflammation in days.

Quite good morning writing in High 5, then quite good morning painting in the not-too-cold studio. Began the day doing weights at the Racquet Club, a fact forgotten until this moment. The RC is solemn, far more solemn than the rowdy Y. I look at the handsome men.