August 12, 2024

This is Monday. Sunday I rose early and went back to the garden, at least duplicating my previous labors. The ground stands bare except where the plants of which I approve now flourish. I saved one lupine out of all I had planted, dwarfed and browning under his roof of wild grass; a tall Mexican sunflower, three rose bushes (which had disappeared) a line of yellow perennials I forget the name of, a dozen or more irises. I planted in some of the bare space more iris. The rest of the redeemed space awaits. The turkey hen and two chicks came to bathe in the fresh dirt, and to pick through what sustenance I might have shaken free. My usual bear started at one end of the garden and walked nonchalantly through to Lakeshore, which I take to be his usual route. How many times does he stroll through without my noticing? Turkeys and bear were in the yard at the same time. I wonder what they thought of one another. I was watching the Olympics, looked up and noticed the turkey hen peering through the front windows, watching along with me. 

At the opening of the Olympic gold medal basketball game they played Le Marseilles and the Star Spangled Banner. All the French players sang their anthem; none of the American sang theirs. 

Buying bulbs voraciously, thinking of the new streetside plot I have to fill.

Orgy of revision, it turns out. Manuscripts must be falsified, at least at their openings, to spike them past the stupidity of agents and editors.