Today I sorted through a few old boxes of papers I needed to sort through. I threw out a satisfying amount of things in those old boxes. I returned library books, and I sat down at the kitchen table to pay bills, reply to invitations that had been sitting on the dining room table, and make reservations at various places. On Sunday I did laundry and weeded and worked on a poem. The weeding and the work on the poem were very similar. Both amounted to a great deal of editing. I had beautiful things that had to come out. These things are hard to pull, but as I yanked wild geraniums in the garden I gained a certain resolve to slash excessive passages in the poem.
Last Thursday, Jim Harrison, Thomas McGuane and Richard Ford appeared together at the Pasant Theatre at Wharton Center for "A Michigan Author Homecoming." Thad and I went, and it was a fine conversation to hear. Harrison was uproarious and irreverent, Ford was earnest, thoughtful and funny, and McGuane was a great storyteller. People were sitting in the aisles, and when the three walked out on stage together there was this really visceral moment of shared appreciation and a great swell of applause. It was electric.
I'm off to the park with Tommy now.
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