On Monday, I interviewed a violinist for a reporting job.

On Tuesday, Jessye Norman died. On the way to work I found the alley strewn with a child’s drawings, all yanked from a loose-leaf notebook. “Was she (or he) so angry?” I wondered. They were charming drawings. I took one home. 

On Wednesday, I had gnocchi in mushroom sauce and a glass of Albariño. 

On Thursday, I met a man with a grammatical error in his tattoo. This was rather sad. It was a quote from a Neil Young song.

On Friday morning, I found myself humming ‘Hi-Lili Hi-Lo’ and on Friday night I was watching a TV show in which the song was the background music.

Most days I was overwhelmed. There was so much minutia to keep track of, many staff concerns, interviews, decisions to make. I was supposed to be writing the last bits of my book before a deadline but I was working long days, no lunch, no exercise. 

On Saturday, I listened to Phoebe Snow’s ‘Poetry Man.’ My son arrived for a week. He admired my robe. I told him his sister talked me into it. He read Oliver Twist on the couch. 

On Sunday, I bought a book that consists of pictures of hands. Some were pointing or gesturing or straightening up, but mostly they were holding instruments.