Sunday, June 15th
If the newspapers and the wireless are to be believed, today is Father’s Day. It is by the by. If I were to hear from any of my children I would be quite flabbergasted, since I have managed to keep my whereabouts a well-guarded secret, and while none of them have thus far tracked me down in order to beg for money I can have no complaints. As it happens, I am pretty sure some of them do not know I am their father. On the other hand, there may be some out there I do not know about, and who may even now be hunting me down. It is something I have learned to live with. I can imagine some people tut-tutting at all of this, but I abandoned my quest for sainthood a long time ago. And yes, I am not what you might call someone who has ever yearned to be a family man. If it had been me that had written the lines
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
they would have come from a somewhat different context to that in which Dr. Williams wrote them.
Back in the world of wars and inept government, thunderstorms are predicted by the weather forecasters, but so far they have not arrived, although the air feels full of their imminence. Meanwhile, Cook has asked for a few days off to go and see her brother, who is having an ingrown toenail removed. I doubt his life is in danger, but I have acceded to her request. I am not an altogether bad employer. She is going away tomorrow, and says she has stocked the freezer, and she has also shown me how to use the range. I already knew how to use it – it is not brain science – but I let her give me the instructions anyway because I knew it would reinforce her sense of being queen of the kingdom. I shall almost certainly be eating at the pub.
I appear to be doing very little these days that is worthy of entering into a diary, which is why I have not really been keeping it up. While I have been engaged on gathering together my “Collected Poems”, I have actually slowed down on that quite a bit after my initial burst of enthusiasm. It is turning out to be more of a tedious task than I had imagined. Who would ever have thought that being constantly reminded of one’s own genius could become tiresome! I think it is because it feels like a chore that must be done, and I have come very much to dislike anything that has a ”must” in front of it. As a result, a comfortable sense of ennui has been reasserting itself into my days, and some days it feels like I might as well make stuff up for the diary just to hoodwink myself (and anyone who reads this) into believing I lead an active and interesting life. The truth is I am rather enjoying laziness, reading a few books, writing a little bit when I feel like it, and walking the dog. My social life, such as it is, always seems to just add complications inasmuch as I am supposed to be interested in what is happening in other people’s lives. I am not, and I am rather tired of pretending that I am.
But never mind what today may or may not be, I awoke feeling mildly irked. I did not sleep very well, and woke up once or twice in the darkness feeling too warm for comfort. One does not expect humidity like that here. I like heat, but if the night is too warm and humid for comfort I find myself longing for the air-conditioners they take for granted in hot countries. This morning I was very grumpy, even by my own standards, and after lunch I locked myself into the library and took refuge in the world of words. Sometimes it is the only way to preserve my sanity. Today I called on Pierre Reverdy:
If I laughed, it wasn’t at the brilliant, joyful world parading before me. Heads,
bent or straight, terrify me and my laugh would have curdled into a grimace.
Running legs wobble and heavier feet miss their step. I didn’t laugh at the world
parading before me—but because I was alone, later, in the fields, facing the vast
calm forest, beneath voices calling across the dormant air.
Thank the Christ for that kind of thing! A few pages more and I was feeling better. Finishing off a bottle of plonk and having a nap helped a bit, too.
This evening the sky is a gloomy and thunder-laden grey but apart from a few drops there has been no rain. There is an oppressive atmosphere, and a good ol’ storm would do us all the world of good. The water company would be happier, I think. I have had a letter from them warning that if very hot weather hits us during the summer they may have to ask customers to limit their use of water, and make them stop using hoses, sprinklers, jet washers and paddling pools. I have no paddling pool. It is also worth noting that I live within a stone’s throw of a river, have a stream running through my land, that the land is often mud, and there is also a well that is the last resting place of more than one official from a public utility company. But I will not mind telling Jethro that he may have to cut down on how much water he adds to his whiskey, although it is already not very much at all. I would do it just to see his reaction.
Speaking of Jethro, he has asked me if he can give the carriage what he called “a new paint job” to spruce it up a bit. I do not care, as long as he does not make it too garish. He says it will be mainly racing green, with a gold trim. Tasteful.
What else can I be arsed to write down? Oh yes. I had a very strange letter yesterday from a poet I shall not name, not from any sense of good manners but because nobody beyond his (or her – it may be a her, I am not letting on) immediate circle is likely to have heard of him or her, or even them. He or she wrote to say he or she was unhappy that I knew where he or she lived. They seem to think I might bother he or she or they or them (I have lost count) at their home, like some kind of poetry stalker. Why on earth would they think that? As a matter of fact, I did not know his or her or their address until receiving this letter, which included it at the top right hand corner of the paper, as convention dictates. What an idiot. There are a lot of them around. A cull is long overdue.
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James Henderson
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