January 9, 2021

Purcell on CD. Wet piercing cold. Began the day with a temper tantrum, trying to simmer down and get some work done. Achieved that, actually, wrenching the music novel onto its true path. No day is happier than that in which the writing flows.

I hate being cold. 

Random thoughts enter, pass through the head. Some cause me to consider if I have not been a more difficult human being than I’ve admitted in the past. Times when I thought I was merely fighting to stay alive, or win a postponed victory, or get some of my own back, or meekly retaliate, may have seemed to others like deeds of wrath and cruelty. All I can say is, I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe I was put on this track by considering the insurrectionists, how one must at some point believe they sincerely imagined themselves doing right. Or did they? Maybe shrillness and hatefulness is the sign that one knows one is doing wrong. I have never been shrill, but looking back, I cannot deny being, from time to remote time, hateful. Because I hated.