April 8, 2025

Cold brilliance in the heavens. My lilacs have never been finer. 

Open mic poetry night at the Flood last night, eight or nine of us, then me as the featured “professional” poet. The poets were middle aged or elderly, various and, against expectation, quite good. My poems felt fussy and over-wrought after theirs. Became re-acquainted with A, the sad giant whose work I showed in Urthona gallery thirty years ago. He has plugged faithfully away at all the arts, shrugging  off a heavy mantle of sadness to do so. In the face of the efforts of others one sometimes feels frivolous and indulged. 

Indisposed in a way that involves no real discomfort, but rather an exhaustion that has allowed me out of bed only for a few hours at a time. Time for rehearsal. 

Brief bout of weeding.