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June 6, 2024

The Day that Would Not End ended at about 12:15 this morning. Faithful Billy dropped me at my darkling door. You had to stand in line for the Delta Sky Lounge at JFK. The democratization of air travel cannot be stopped except by one’s dropping out oneself. Worked on the play. The last leg, between Atlanta and Asheville, was leavened by my seat companion, who owns a beauty salon in Shreveport, LA. We mostly talked about True Blood. She’s visiting a friend in Asheville to have a girls’ week while the friend’s son attends his first summer camp. 

The impression of finally being in my own house was that of stunning silence. Compared to Cork and Limerick, my street seems wholly uninhabited by night, silent as stone, not a peep until birds began to cry before dawn. Delicious summer warmth laving all. So far as I’ve looked, I find nothing here amiss– despite what I might have imagined. Potato salad in the Atlanta Sky Lounge of memorable savor. Drank iced tea as though it were ambrosia. 

Aryan Noor drove me to the airport. He said his name means “moonlight.” I observed that I thought the Queen of Jordan had the same name. He speaks Persian and fled to Ireland with his family when he was twelve from Afghanistan. He said that of all English speakers, American are the easiest to understand. He asked if Americans think that Trump is a joke, or is it just everybody else. The gay steward from the Shannon-New York flight said I was the passenger who gave the least trouble. Part of that was that I’d had three quite calming bloody Mary’s (which I made myself, so–) before boarding. 

Thought I’d save gardening for a little while, but new bamboo spearing through the canopy got me down there with my spade. There weren’t many, but they were large and, most of them beyond hacking, had to be wrestled to the ground.