December 31, 2021

Palestrina on Pandora. 

Cool day, sun and rain squalls alternating. 

The headachy ickiness I felt at the beginning of the week was possibly Covid. D and L both Face Book that they have it, and are quarantining. I assumed a big gathering like the one at Christmas would be a cauldron of it. But, if that was it, it wasn’t much. I thought it was phlebitis and gobbled unnecessary anitbiotics.  My socializing is so slim I won’t worry about deliberate quarantining. 

During massage, Z told me about his new reading habits, and how he’d finished a number of books. For one wild moment I thought he was going to comment on OBN, but, of course, not. The most influential read in his life turns out to be a self-help called No More Mr Nice Guy, which suggests ways, I gather, to stop being everybody’s doormat and dare some self-assertion. Haven’t read it, but the change in him over a two week period was miraculous, from mouse to peacock. Peacock suits him. He has the equipment for it. His beauty should have obtained for him a more exciting life than he has so far had .

Do I overestimate the worth of personal beauty? I think of Dickinson’s poem, “Success is counted sweetest. . . “ 

I am probably not an intuitively good audience for No More Mr Nice Guy

The file “Play Submissions” sits on my screen. I have made 90 submissions of plays in 2021. Two have resulted in productions or future productions. And, as only one of them has actually happened, only one is sure: “Alfie and Greta” in Australia, my first work there. Only four have received outright rejections.

O, what a year.

Lost Circe the angel cat. Bitterly wept for her. I hope she knows. 

Sweetboi and Denise came to lord it over my garden. Maybe the best thing of the year. 

My garden was the best it ever was. It will be better this spring.

Lost trips to Greece and Israel.

The One with the Beautiful Necklaces and Washington Place appeared in print. The Ones with Difficult Names is all proofed and edited and ready for the next step. 

Wrote volumes, the mass of which I have not come to terms with myself. Sat at the green table and wrote a brief story this morning, before coffee. Maud is the hero of it. 

Went back on stage, in a live play, a ballet, and an oratorio, all of them brand new. I’m prouder of that than I was when I began to type the sentence. 

Getting ready to leave the house, I heard a tiny scratchy sound on the walk. The sun was low and in my eyes, so I had to adjust for a moment to see the truly massive flock of turkeys that had gathered under my magnolia. Almost the best imaginable sign for the coming of the new year.

The overture to “The Flying Dutchman” is my earworm at the moment. What sign is that? Travel. A love-curse.