Nine forty.
Polly called me up just after I got out of bed and we talked for an hour. Then, during a lull in the rain, I shuffled off to the market in a dismal mood. I told myself I would just take my time even if it started to rain. Having made it to the store, Michelle was particularly nice today, commenting about my dog, whose food I didn’t need to buy this time. The radio played an old pop song from the seventies, “Oh What a Night.” Yesterday she wore a rose Tom & Jerry sweatshirt, but today the pattern was more ordinary… I just received some awesome news from a healthcare network in Portland. This social worker named Lenora said I am eligible for a personal care assistant, and she’s getting the process moving. Apparently my case manager at Laurel Hill did great in faxing off my paperwork. Usually it’s such an uphill battle to obtain services of this kind, so I’m surprised at my luck.
Ten forty. The afternoon yesterday was clear and sunny for the first time in many weeks. I thought of going out in it, over to the store for something sweet to eat, but I panned the idea because there was nothing I really needed. For the wee hours this morning I struggled with Mallarme’s French, seeking the answer but not knowing the question. In the book I ran across some strange mathematical signs and figures, suggesting to me that he was interested in semiotics. I found his poem about the flying flaming hair, but where a title should be there was a pentagram. I imagine that the early scores of the music of Penderecki were similarly impressionistic and difficult to grasp. I’m sort of wondering why they can’t be more direct and literal. Is this just my American naïveté?
robgradens 