Hot disk

An unusually sociable day.

This morning, visited a friend in the hospital. Took him three of my books he hasn’t read: James Baldwin’s Just Above My Head, Jose Saramago’s Death with Interruptions, and Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows. As he lies there white-faced with pain from diabetic neuropathy, he’ll take comfort and reassurance from glorious language, erotic images, flights of fancy, and the domestic harmony of Ratty and Mole snuggling by the river. Almost worth being in hospital to have those three marvelous books. I recall the joy of experiencing each one for the first time.

This afternoon, lunch with two good friends, appreciating Temple Grandin and discussing Asperger’s spectrum, various kinds of closeness and relationship, intimacy. Fears and hopes.

Tonight, dinner with Seth. A rare treat to have him all to myself. He tells the best work-stories I’ve ever heard, and we always love to talk politics, child-rearing, and life's pleasures. He has taken up pipe-smoking: a civilized vice.

Now to bed, I’m worn out. Tomorrow, a wedding. Comments off and hugs to the world.

This image: a rain puddle near the river, big enough to hold the sky, the sun a hot disk in a swirling field of dancing cloud.