Jim Harrison died Saturday. One of my favorite writers.
He was old; he was not immortal.
The moon comes up.
The moon goes down.
This is to inform you
that I didn’t die young.
Age swept past me
but I caught up.
Spring has begun here and each day
brings new birds up from Mexico.
Yesterday I got a call from the outside
world but I said no in thunder.
I was a dog on a short chain
and now there’s no chain.
Yesterday was Easter. My least favorite Jesus Day. Christmas doesn’t alienate me, but Easter almost always does. I kept wanting to dress Rutger up in a tiny yamaka and phylacteries, but one of the few downsides of cats is that they really don’t like costumes.
Instead, Rutger, the Meezer, and I all huddled up in bed together and watched Ben Hur. In his autobiography, Gore Vidal writes delightedly how he and the other writers involved with the film grafted a strong homoerotic subtext on to the pseudo-Biblical parable to which Charlton Heston remained utterly oblivious, and indeed, Ben Hur is one long gay fetish fest. So that was entertaining.
There wasn’t any work over the weekend, so now I’m waaaaaaay behind on my revenue-generating goals.
On the plus side, I got quite a bit of fiction-writing done, and I figured out the tricky transition to Chapter 3.