January 4, 2022

Bitter cold but bluebird blue morning. 

The indigo sweater that I got in from LL Bean while I was in Syracuse 45 years ago is about to go into the recycling bin, both elbows worn out, six or seven gaping holes. I thought its fidelity deserved mention. If I still had my studio I’d work it into collage. 

Vittoria on Pandora. 

I may have remarked on the fact that I’ve received not one communication from UNCA since I retired– not even a solicitation for donations. I certainly didn’t get the goddam rocking chair that everybody gets. Do I blame the manifold oversights occasioned by the pandemic? Did I leave a bitter taste behind me among those who look after such things? They did give me Emeritus status, so my name couldn’t be all that blackened. I tend to underestimate my effect on people, tend to assume I’ve left no particular impression behind, when in fact the impression I’ve left behind is often astonishing for its vehemence, on either side of the ledger. Not interested enough to ask, nor, now, do I know whom. 

The day seemed full, though filled mostly with errands and tidying up. One errand was this: two days ago I did a little shopping at Ingles. I had very distinct recollections of buying peanut butter (a disabled man in a wheelchair was blocking the peanut butter shelf, taking each jar off the shelf, investigating it, laying it back up and going on to the next. I had to wait for him to move on half an inch before I could make a grab for the jar I wanted). When I got home I couldn’t find the peanut butter. Next day I went to Ingles and told the guy in the office platform that I’d purchased peanut butter, but it wasn’t in my bag when I got home. He said, “Go and get what you need,” so I did, walking out of the store with a naked jar of peanut butter in my hand. Nobody stopped me. The next day I realized I’d put the ice cream in the freezer without noticing that the peanut butter was in the same bag. So, today, I drove to Ingles to sneak the second jar of peanut butter back onto the shelf. I wondered what I’d say if I’d been caught doing it. Incredibly, the same disabled man was inching along the same aisle as before, but now a few feet down from the peanut butter, removing items, gazing, setting them back.