November 1, 2022
All Saints.
Watched The Bride of Frankenstein on Hallowe’en night. I hadn’t remembered from my childhood that it is funny.
Painted my white rose, that it might linger. It has lingered outside the front door, in the flesh, most miraculously.
Gardening in the autumn cool. Pulled up the dead giants from the front garden, replenished the dirt that rode out on their roots.
Knee issues seem to be cured–rather spectacularly–by prednisone. There’s ever an underlying ouchyness, but the great scalding flame is gone.
Realized a certain Trumpishness in myself. When I lose a writing contest or a publication I assume, at some point, that the process was rigged.
No comments:
Post a Comment