July 1, 2021

An anniversary. Today I have been retired for one year. What a year. . .  Looking back at it, what strikes me most is the productivity, in terms of writing. No other year like it, even in my inexhaustible youth. 

Donald Rumsfeld is dead. We can begin scouring one human stain from the earth. 

Picked up brushes and painted for the first time since last winter, using the water media that had fallen into the single box I saved from the studio, egg tempera, gouache, casein. They seem to mingle together OK. I painted the pond and the fence behind it, which I could see from my little side porch. If I am going to do this again I must do it differently: I must discover rather than impose.