Persimmon

 

November 1, 2024

Another night on the porch with a drink in my hands. The Internet’s failure gives me time with my thoughts, often vast and unfamiliar thoughts, often the same dry rustle in the dry grass. I am a small man: I would trade the profundities to have my TV back, at least to have the choice between them 

Pulled myself out of rage long enough to plant Siberian iris, ranunculus in pots (will it grow?) and to paint. Rage interferes with words, but it does not so much with images. It makes me think that anger, unlike other emotions, is a kind of narrative. 

One persimmon clung to the tree after the hurricane. Half of it was rotten, but I ate the other half, and it was divinely sweet.