May 12, 2020

Still too cold for spring, me dragging around with Dale’s comforter over my shoulders.

An odd sensation– thinking on my life as a painter fills me with unaccountable–if mild– disgust. It’s even disturbing having my old work in the house. I don’t know what’s going on there at all.

Phone calls to social security (inspired by some panic from the UNCA HR people) unexpectedly informative and uncomplicated. All is well with me as far as medicare.

*** writing the above lines made me look once more for Dale, of whom I lost track long ago. An online obituary (where had that been before?) told me he died in January 2006. The sad mourning statements should have included mine, but of course they did not. Dale and I met in Lucille’s the first night of my first trip to New Orleans, and we were lovers to the extent that I would allow us to be. One year the King cakes stopped, and when I called there was no answer. He had both AIDS and MS. For what good it does– and I must believe it does some good– Dale, I remember you.