So far this month. I have made little progress on Camp NaNo, but I withdrew six poetry submissions yesterday. A story has been out for a year, six months short-listed—I think they are only teasing me. Yesterday the last of the base went down in the dining room and kitchen; it’s only been thirty-some years. This morning I have a few hundred square feet of floor to varnish plus that newly installed base. Rain is nearly always welcome, post-fireworks especially, but the damp will slow drying, so that is not so good.
I am worried about a former student and driving and writing and the world too. Not in that order.
Sleep did not find me last night, and I am already tired before a very hectic morning. The next busy-busy days, and I figured out, finally, what to do about a quilt I have wanted to construct. Good? I gave up reading Romola, which is too smart for my mood just now. And I was wrong about a connection to the painter Artemesia Gentileschi. Does anyone enjoy being wrong? I should be up walking the beach, but finally I feel sleepy when it is too late in the morning already for sleep.
Finally, the national newspapers seem to care about abuses against women, or at least when it makes a good story. One local Florida reporter would not let the Epstein story go. Julie K. Brown of The Miami Herald just kept digging and pushing. It took a while to regain traction—more than a decade for the boys to pay attention to this legal travesty—but her name has already disappeared from reporting on the rapes and other abuses committed by a very rich man. New York’s Southern District, Geoffrey Berman, noted, “The defendant, a registered sex offender, is not reformed, he is not chastened, he is not repentant.” Well, when you are famous they let you do anything. (Who said that?) Money does not talk, it fairly shrieks until it has its way.
Why is that allowed in the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Oh, right, money.