Yes, but.

The lute transcription is in Bach's hand, which I'd really like to see, as his handwriting is always described as lovely. Butterflies everywhere, thousands of them, I've never seen so many. Had to make a run to town for the usual supplies, whiskey and tobacco. Asceticism is attractive but I bow to my addictions. The geese had taken over the lake. Hundreds of them, shitting and waddling around, like hippos in Africa, like a bunch of long-necked models gone to fat. Stop at the pub, and Barb, one of the owners, makes it clear to the help that it's always happy hour for me. Astra tells me they have chicken noodle soup today, to which she knows I'm partial, so I have a bowl and a pint of ale. I'd had to close the house up, against projected thunderstorms, and I can tell it's hot outside, nearing 100 degrees, because the wind through my open truck windows is uncomfortable, and when I get home it's 88 degrees inside. Turn on the air-conditioner and plop on the sofa with the latest Lee Child novel. Life is good. Listen to the "St. Matthew Passion" which surely must be the second greatest piece of music in the world, and because the house is cool enough, make a wonderful eggplant parmesan that fairly melts in the mouth. Instead of corn flour, I dip the leached rounds in stone-ground corn meal Joel sent from Georgia. That little bit of bite makes all the difference. The marinara was a simple slow-cooked amalgam of roasted red peppers and plum tomatoes, with onions, tons of garlic, and a fist full of basil. I won't bore you with how good it was. I wept. Maybe, I think, I could get by with a recording of the natural world. Living good is easy. You just move inside and forget the fox. Play the Cello Suites and read books, what's the difference for god's sake? But I know I'm missing something, that world where a opossum digs through your compost pile and the crows chatter apparent indifference. I'm sure it must be 78 degrees, because I'm not sweating and the room, where I write, is comfortable. I'm making a compromise here. The phone is out, two more trees down on Mackletree. One of those days at the museum where I must have walked 10 or 12 miles. The "Cream Show" is on two floors and the rejected art is in the basement. This local show, artists pick up their work, I just give it to them, directly off the walls. Hoping to get shed of as much as possible very quickly. So most of the day, I'm running around, up and down, fetching art. Chatting a bit, fielding compliments and criticisms. Lunch with Anthony and D, they talk the academic politic, and I stare into the middle distance. After work I have a beer with Anthony and we talk about personal failures. On the drive home I think about them more, the personal failures, where I might have done something different. No benefit from second guessing, I stop at the lake with a bag of second-hand bread to bear-bait the geese. I have a history with these birds, but I know their behavior fairly well, and I'm not in any physical danger unless I trip and fall. In which case there would be that great opportunity for a headline: "Writer Pecked To Death By Geese", or whatever variation you might imagine. But I've studied this terrain and watched these animals, and I'm pretty sure of my footing; I leave a string of firecrackers and a book of matches on the seat, just in case. Diversion is the first rule of escape. Throw them out the window with a flare. Focus attention where you're not. I'm already home. They're looking for someone on the Interstate. A green Volvo station wagon. I tell the kids to take a cab home and forget it ever happened. I'm watching the Food Channel. The cops knock on the door.