October 18, 2026

V is dead. I lost track of him through the years, but his obituary makes his life seem as one of singular achievement and blessedness. 

Watched a film about Nureyev’s Swan Lake, and couldn’t get past my irritation with his misuse of the corps. There were scenes in which only two were dancing, yet the corps were lined up on stage like fence posts, trying to be inconspicuous, or like God knows what with their arms waving in the air. Do they get extra money for every scene they’re in? If only two need to be watched, get everybody else off stage, bring them back on when needed. Classical ballet is not my favorite thing. So much of it is waiting for a dancer to strike a pose already known and approved, and to be judged on the exquisite sameness by which it is achieved. Even at passionate moments– lovers’ paux de deux– there is no actual passion, just conventional gestures intended as indications of passion. I suppose the very things that sadden me are those in which a fan delights. 

Engaged and productive day, after several in which I seemed to be spinning my wheels. Grasped where a play went wrong. Planted the delivered boxes of Siberian iris, most in the ground, but two in a giant green pot I hauled onto the porch. Emptied the dirt of pots whose flowers had died into the new one, with a little fertilizer. Left the geraniums, because they caught new life after the rain and may have a week or two left to them. 

Pure and gleaming day in the peacock mountains. Were I a tourist here I would think I’d gotten my money’s worth.