Last  night the electricity flickered twice, first for a second and soon after for three or four seconds. And that was that except for the seven emails exchanged between neighbors. Who must all have been on their phones, alone in the dark, and reacting instanteously--reaching out for connection and reassurance. This is not how we should live.

Two points to remember from my conversation yesterday about Valerie Eliot. First, TSE was indeed "weird" and that needs to be acknowledged. He was a full participant in the folie a deux I'm describing. And I must try to pick up the speed I had when I was young. Somehow all the note-keeping tools and websites and Scrivener itself make writing more and more complicated. The woman I spoke to said, "I hope it comes out soon enough that I get to read it." Of course we were talking about the Eliot letters, which have taken decades, but still I need to refresh my thinking about timelines. Springtime revisions ahead.

I have trouble coping with news of war. It sends me into a funk, which more personal troubles do not. Personal ups and downs I expect, but I have a naive optimism about world affairs. War hits me in the gut. It's visceral, enveloping. I have friends who would say that I must have lived through, or died in, a war, and I can see why people imagine that we have lived other lives when feelings like this hit me. Yesterday I read that the chair of the FCC was talking about bans on the fake media, in which he included the Wall Street Journal, for not reporting the war as the administration would prefer. I am not a fan of Orwell because I've read too much about his treatment of women, but is there anyone who has so neatly grasped the way the politically powerful need to control words, and truth? Mandelstam, too, and I'm sure many other writers, have much to tell us, but Orwell's talent was turning it into fiction, and short pieces. Ethan Cohen sent an invitation to a friends-and-family gathering for Jerry (Jerome Cohen), at his gallery in New York. That is the kind of event [...]

Reading Trollope short stories, while fighting the Battle of Tech Migration, has led me onto two paths of thought. One, a familiar passageway, is that I want to write about and perhaps teach a course on Trollope's women. The women in the stories are not up to the standard of the novels' characters, but they remind me of the women who are really worth consideration. (Added: a few days after writing this, I came across the personal statement I wrote when applying to do an MA at University College London in 1984: "My enthusiasm for Trollope is what led me to UCL. I was with a bunch of friends and somehow ended up telling the story of Lady Anna. One of them said, “You should be teaching, you’ve got it all bottled up inside.” I did start the MA course but was bored, got pregnant, and dropped out.) And the minor figures take me to another pondering: of the odd characters I've come across, the patterns or types, and the women who don't fit an easy pattern. Cheryl, the missionary, is one, and I think I will start writing about her very soon. And I'm thinking about a pair, one [...]

Gloomy yesterday over the state of the world, and what this new war says about the future. It puts the November elections in greater danger, distracts us from clinate change, and takes the US even farther from its allies and ideals. The fact that the Iranian leaders are bad guys just provides cover. I'll bet the heads of other nations, even our former allies, are thinking about their security arrangements. My gloom helped me understand the weight Virginia Woolf felt in 1941. Someone who suffered from depression anyway--looking at the world today, I can easily imagine how that might sink her, looking at that world at war.

Snow day, at home (missed the January storm), and quiet except for the machine at work at 5am on the street corner. Worried it might be something serious to do with the water system. I will be working. I got two prods this week in the sauna. On different days, someone I hadn't seen in a while asked, "How's your book coming?" One referred to the book on cafes and speakeasies, and the other to Valerie Eliot. Flag planted in the sauna. Flags, that is.