August 30, 2026

Day of many chores accomplished, but that is little to write about. Trump cuts down the Japanese cherry trees around the Mall in DC in order to expand a golf course. His depravity– and hence the depravity he valorizes in others– is difficult to comprehend. Lazy in all other things, Trump is energetic and concentrated when it comes to cruelty, maybe because he can get others to act on his behalf. His central delight is destroying what is precious to others, there being nothing precious to him beyond his own corrupt flesh and devouring greed. MAGA cannot help following his lead. He has somehow made actions they would otherwise deem horrifying palpable, even advanced. When he fails, his failure must be final and all-embracing, every Trumpian thought and remnant rooted out. Every ICE officer, every government functionary must face the charge and explain why they should not be removed from public life. Toleration will not work here. The evil is too great. The cruelty is too gleeful. The merciless are the one group who deserve no mercy. 

Pure

 August 29, 2026

A day of the most miraculous labor and inspiration, the words flowing out like drops from a fountain. I have days like this, nights like this from time to time, rare, but in a long life, enough to come to know and understand. My fingers on the keyboard could do no wrong. I remember this from when I began. I do know that, as far as the quality of my own life, nothing will come of it, and yet I commit, I go forward, as aside from all consequence, it is beautiful. I am ot deceived, Lord. I know that you will negate all consequence. What does it say of me that that does not matter? For tonight I am pure.

 August 28, 2026

The King of Norway is dead. Glad he lived to see his country so beloved at the World Cup. 

AVLGMC rehearsal last night. Huge now. One of the new recruits is in fact a woman, who turns out to have been my student my first years at UNCA and to have adored me, so that is a corner turned with unexpected ease. She showed me a photo of her quite beautiful son, who didn’t exist when we had class together Final triumph of bad music now that no one remains to fight for the Muse. 

Disproportional fit of rage yesterday when the pond aerator didn’t work AGAIN. I’m glad there’s space between me and the next dwellings, for the explosion was loud and sustained. The guy at Jesse Israel asked me if I had cleaned the filters, and I had not. I came home certain that cleaning the filters would not help, but I cleaned then, and the water geysered out ten inches above the pipe, singing like a river. Pond is more aerated than it’s ever been. Me considering why I think every glitch is a sign of the gods arrayed against me. 

 August 26, 2026

TV last night was largely Dolly Parton eulogies, very much of a piece, which I suppose is the mark of a coherent life. The alternative was a documentary about Mary Oliver on PBS, which I watched in small horror as long as I could stand it. Couldn’t keep out of my mind the litany, “I’m ten times better– where’s my documentary?”

 August 25, 2026

Dolly Parton is dead.

Lunch with SS. We’re gloomy about our craft and our futures, and yet plunge ahead. His stamina exceeds mine as the heavens are high above the earth. 

Finished An Age of Silver one hour before lunch.

I am a bard with no tribe to sing the songs to.

I am a storyteller with no one listening. 

I have perfected an art that no one needed. 

It was impossible to see this coming–or, if it was possible, I was too blinded by love.

I look back and find no place where I might have taken another path, where I might have turned around. 

One cannot even cry out, as infinite lives are laid to infinitely greater waste. 

Sweet moon in the south, rounding the corners of the garden. 

 August 24, 2026

Back to the de-vining. The weather was so perfect I didn’t even break a sweat. 

Results of AVLGMC auditions posted. If I can judge from names we have accepted two women. I asked myself if I really care, and I really don’t. My conviction that not everything should be diluted and made like every other thing is intellectual and not, perhaps, essential. I cannot uphold everything, or perhaps anything at all.  This should be, and may be some day, a relief. 

Anniversary

 August 23, 2026

Sixty years ago tonight I sat at my desk in my little green room in Akron and wrote my first poem. I was so happy. The walls and roof opened around me, and nothing encased me but the immensity of the world. I was so sad, because the occasion of the poem was sad, but I was also so happy. Wrote out the poem this morning to be sure that I remembered it.

Tackled the great billows of morning glory that took over most of the gardens. In terms of the sheer volume of plant material uprooted, this was the among the most productive days ever in the garden. I was a botano-archaeologist, uncovering lost cultures buried under pretty but consuming vines.