I slept badly Monday night after the skit rehearsal. But yesterday  went well, despite my fatigue. I walked to the Evergreen Senior Center and treadmilled. I keep seeing old men who remind me of my father. The liver spots. The intelligent glances. The humor. The frailty. I, of course, avoid mirrors at that point.

I’m feeling pretty good this morning as well. According to my daily weighing, I have lost close to fifteen pounds since I began occasionally skipping martinis and wine (and more importantly snacks) in the evening.

I do find poetry and music (and other arts) an extreme solace and consolation. I feel lucky, grateful, and privileged on an almost daily basis.

I’m not sure how many of my readers might be interested in poetry.

But this morning I have just about finished Tyehimba Jess’s Olio. I also read a wonderful poem by Derek Walcott called “Forest of Europe.”

It begins with metaphors of trees and leaves being like orchestras and notes. Then in the middle it makes this comment about poetry:

The tourist archipelagoes of my South
are prisons too, corruptible, and though
there is no harder prison than writing verse,
what’s poetry, if it is worth its salt,
but a phrase men can pass from hand to mouth?

I also spent time this morning reading in Natasha Trethewey’s Native Guard.

She edits The Best American Poetry 2017 which I am also working my way through.

In addition I am reading Wallace Stevens and Harold Bloom’s book about him.

This stuff keeps me centered and grateful.