June 8, 2024

Extreme early rising brought on by the clash of times between here and Europe means that I woke, caught up on correspondence, submitted three manuscripts, did the day’s weeding before 10 AM. Good effort at weeding, though about a tithe of what needs to be done. The orange sun hat proved its mettle. 

People ask what the most important thing that happened in Ireland was, and I have to get past the real one to name one they want to hear about. The real one was lying in my bed in Cork, sort of getting physically ill, but certainly sliding into the abyss of dark thoughts. Memories were pinnacles cast up from the past, places where thoughts snag one and lash one to bareness and despair. I foresaw a night of howling anger, as I’ve had ten thousand times before. I realized this derived from looking up old journal references to Cork and the places I knew there, harmless enough, but each harmless recollection dragging its burden of disappointment, deception, futility. Then, like the touch of an angel, came the revelation, “then don’t think of it.” Do not indulge in recollection. Have no past. With some exceptions, my “present” is hopeful, energized, lighthearted. Each day means starting again with my full complement of visionary joy. Thinking of all the times– which is almost all times–when this visionary joy came to nothing is instructive without actually being helpful. Not thinking of the past is the only way forward. So far, it’s worked. I’ve drawn myself out of whatever declivity my thoughts detected. Lost nothing, moved forward. Maybe it’s my time of life. Maybe it’s a lesson I would have been happier learning as a lad.