070524-1900

The apartment's a mess from the foyer back to the office, a clutter of boxes, books, bric-a-brac, but two spaces have been put in repair: the garden on the balcony and the living room, both of which lend themselves to repose. 

I hope we may keep them so.

Anne's transition this summer starts when she wants it too.  Whether I'll fare well with company, I don't know: I've lived alone most of my life, for family--through its attitudes, manipulations, and obligations--has been often the worst part of it.

I don't know whether I'll be able to push Communicating Arts photography into a frothy little business, a necessary part of producing and sustaining family, my own this time.

I don't know whether we'll prove a happy little literary household, up to our noses in books, reveling in it, and publishing.

I don't even know whether my heart will hold out, I have been such a pig in the kitchen, at the table, and down at the bar for years, and this year-and-one-half getting past the fire of winter 2006 has been especially sedentary.

Nonetheless, one looks at what's on the board and plays ahead firmly, willfully, realistically.

I am too old for blind optimism and too young in life to quit on dreams.

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