July 21, 2022

I always thought my gift was sturdy, but today I was thrown off by the postponement of the window guy– car trouble– and Tarzan the Tree man because of unfinished projects. Cannot write well in a state of anticipation, especially as it colors down into frustration. I didn’t realize these things would count as frustrations, but they do. I have, in retrospect, spent a great deal of my energies seeking the calm–the obscurity–which I evidently need in order to create. 

My long puzzling about my Syracuse roommate F ended today when I learned he died of a brain aneurysm fourteen years ago. The only story he ever published was “The Dancing Ducks,” which I saw in manuscript and couldn’t help him with, because I didn’t understand it. His bitch of a girlfriend ended what might have been a heroic friendship.