June

The third day of June is cold and feels more like late September. Descriptions of weather are not particularly interesting in themselves — only when they double as descriptions of moods; when they reflect, refract.

I’m on the way to the theater for a matinee of my play; it’s the fourth show in three days.

There’s a very strange young man with a mustache playing a game on his phone at full volume — and the dirty look he gave me for giving him a dirty look was uncomfortable… is uncomfortable (for I sense the look is lingering, hovering, observing).

After the play I plan to leave the city for a few days so that I can be somewhere greener and quieter. I ran laps around the small park near my apartment this morning just to be under tree cover for a few minutes.

The man playing the game at full volume just got off the train — thank God.

I look forward to June 21st with trepidation: for it is the day when the days begin to grow shorter again, even if the warmth and splendor of summer will continue for months. There is something comforting at knowing the days are growing longer; there is a deep sense of abundance and calm.

I look forward to June 16th — Bloomsday — the date on which Joyce assigned to his single day epic Ulysses. Bloomsday celebrates Leopold Bloom, a wonderful, humane creature who never existed.