The shopping is done, and because there were a number of bargains I couldn't pass up, most of the grocery money for the month is already gone. With luck the stuff I got today will last for three weeks with very little augmentation. If not, I'll have to break into the emergency money, because I have no intention of taking any more out of the bank account this month. I'm expecting the insurance on the house to go up again this year, and I want to be sure I have enough on hand to pay it all at once. There's a surcharge if you divide it into two payments, and I hate paying surcharges.
For some reason Portia is sitting on my desk next to the keyboard and purring like crazy. If she thinks that her purr will coax me into letting her sit on my lap while I'm using the keyboard she should think again. Or do whatever cats do in lieu of thinking. She'll have to wait until I'm done and I go into the living room to watch television. I haven't checked to see what's on PBS tonight, but I don't think it will be English people murdering one another. In fact there might be Germans mass murdering English people with bombs, which is not at all the same. I'll watch it nonetheless, of course. But first I have to post this entry and the usual
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets.
Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet.
And if a man lived in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
obscurity is not uninteresting.
To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.
And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.
In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.
There are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.
Whose fate is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing:
by the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.
I meant to post something by Yevgeny Yevtushenko last Sunday, but forgot. He died on April 1 in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he had taught poetry at the University of Tulsa for some time. An interesting thing about Yevtushenko turned up a few days later in the form of an article in the Paris Review about his long-time connection with those American writers known as the Cowboy Poets. I never would have guessed.