Polenta for dinner. As usual. But real. Bramata. 40 minutes. Creamy, though no cream or milk. Just the cracked corn. Topped with tomato, olive, mushroom, caper sauce. My new staple. Other people eat pasta. Ashley eats polenta. Make enough for two nights, and the second night slice it and fry it in olive oil and more garlic.

Meanwhile attempting a cover for the new book. The question book, as I call it. QB. Title and cover have been a wrestling match. Now thinking of a clean red apple and a crossbow bolt. Or quarrel. Crossbow arrows aren’t arrows, they’re bolts, or quarrels. Fantastic! Got a quarrel with me?

Last call with Gallup tomorrow for a last detail. Then send the manuscript off to Rich. The brown grass appears in larger and larger patches. Go up to the gully and watch the chamoix play.  Watch the sun rise, moving along the ridge. Watch the stars, Orion setting now, the Lion up above Moncucco. The Great Bear dominating the sky, Arcturus red on the horizon, rising like the sun as the blue sky turns black. Listen to the streams, each at its own pitch—try to distinguish them.

Reading George Berkeley. Fantastic. The superfluity of matter. The meaninglessness of matter. The meaninglessness of existence! Not ours, but that of the unperceived. Ha! Radical animism!! And how simply and likeably written. Love the man.

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