As in the Wallace Stevens poem “It was evening all afternoon.” This week I have enjoyed going to go the café across the street to read and drink coffee and eat muffins, and ended up mostly watching the young families and the timelessness of their lives and the kids eating croissants without worry. All of the young girls wear striped stockings and rain boots and messy ponytails and say things like “I know how to say hello in Spanish. Ola. Ola.” Their sweet and total guilelessness makes my heart ache.

 I read great books that become great ghosts that keep me company. I go to bed with them and stay awake much too late. Nicholson Baker and Lydia Davis make rather fine friends when you are feeling kind of lonesome. Chekhov is good too, of course, and some Tolstoy, but not too much. Baker reminded me of what an excellent poet Elizabeth Bishop is and I re-read a bunch of her stuff and looked out windows and felt quiet and alive. I worry so much about the future, but am trying to just appreciate what we have: one moment to the next. My flaneur nature- growing bigger, taking me over, propelling me into whatever is next- and me, trying to accept it.