August 5, 2022

Drinks with SS at Rye Knot. I come away from such evenings wondering at my own persistent naivete concerning the behavior and intention of those around me. The sociopaths in my set are largely unknown to me. Maybe it’s partially the difference between Knowing Brooklyn and Big Wide Howdy Akron– also, keeping in mind the deliberate blind eye I turn to things which I suspect may be an interruption– though, these days, I wonder “interruption of what?” Bright beginning of a bright day. Must remember to dump rainwater out of the wheelbarrow. Tony mowed yesterday. I wonder what he thought of the missing trees and opened pathways. Sick to my stomach over the roof. Sick to my stomach is new. Wishing I had a studio, with ideas for paintings. Not wishing THAT hard. . . . Found Windows open on the address for the Archbishop of Canterbury, causing me to remember I’d thought to send him a book of poems. Zero in checking account. One transfers money, whistling under the breath. 

Email from the Magnetic revealing that, if colossal sums are not raised instantly, the theater must close. Way beyond my ability to help. Blame is thrown backwards on “previous administrations.” Among the ships sunk are The Frankenstein Rubrics and Bach Bach Bach Bach.  What a lovely summer this turns out to be.