March 7, 2022
Changeable spring day. Reading Sweat by Hayes, a history of exercise. I had forgotten my old curiosity, the way I would read anything at any time, the way I rejoiced in tangents and minutiae. The fact is that throughout my collegiate career I read almost nothing for pleasure, except magazines. Back to reading now, though with weakened eyes, which means that between reading and writing I must ration one to achieve the other.
Heavy rain allows me to postpone for one more day the reconnection of the garden hose.
Ten years ago tonight a boy wandered onto a moonlit street of Valletta and played lascia ch’io pianga to the stone and the cats and to me. One of the moments of my life inlaid like a jeweled masterpiece in the wall of some cold, dim edifice.
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