December 22, 2023

Ended the longest night with a trip to the Y and a brisk work-out. 

Call from Wells Fargo. One J B–unknown to me– wrote himself a check on my account for $4632+.  He must have intercepted a check at the mailbox. This may explain why credit cards have been reporting missed payments when I never allow such a thing. One suspects the mailman. Who else has access? I wonder how it’s done, though one probably can’t ask. 

Very strange: I’ve brimmed more with the “Christmas Spirit”–whatever that might actually be– than at any time since I was a kid. I listen to Christmas music for hours, paintbrush in hand, perfectly happy. I sit beside the lit tree thinking– who knows? Peaceful and expectant. It’s sweet. I’ll stop trying to explain it. 

Bach Christmas Oratorio. 

Much praised on Facebook for a painting of the French Broad at the Solstice, that took me one evening to do. It painted itself, though I don’t know how to explain that so it doesn’t sound like a wisecrack. In writing, too, speed– or at least dispatch– has been the mark of doing it right. I pay for that with the agony of publication. Which way would I have rather had it?