Monday, 17 April – Such a small day. Worked in the garden late. Earlier, continuing to work on my suite of novels, a nine-volume work I'm nearly halfway through.
Sunday, a friend compared the endeavor to Anthony Powell's noted work, A Dance to the Music of Time. But in truth there aren't many parallels; for instance, Powell's sequence has a single narrator; mine has three, all of whom know each other, but they aren't even particularly close, though they do manage to keep tabs on each other.
One thing that made me laugh about the comparison, however, was recalling that Powell's work draws its name from a famous Poussin painting. The covers of the most noted edition of Dance, in fact, feature details from this painting. The details are all portraits of the men and women in it.
That made me laugh because while I might like to, and while it may help lend the work an extra measure of dignity, I'd not about to license any such work when I can sit here and make watercolors all by myself. A few weeks ago, I did one (right) as a study representing the woman featured in the first novel in the sequence. I like it enough that I may keep it.
Wednesday, 18 April – Another of those smallish days yesterday, but...was working on a scene set in Boston, and while doing so, as usual, heard from a Bostonian I haven't heard from in three months. Later, made it to Chavez Ravine in the evening, to see the local nine drop another; bewilderingly, they didn't hit for the pitcher in the fifth with two on, two outs, and down by two runs. Even more bewilderingly, pitcher slapped a single, loading the bases. But the whole episode left me with the feeling that the Dodgers weren't as interested in winning last night as they were in letting a pitcher get some work in, which ran contrary to my feeling that a baseball team should try to win every home game especially. Noted an oddity as I watched the temperature drop through the evening: by the scoreboard, it dropped two degrees at a time, from 69° at gametime, down to 67, 65, and ultimately 63°, with no interim even numbers. Now why is that?
Thursday, 19 April – Making notations on roses yesterday at The Huntington. Rose on left is
Polka, on right, Belle Portugaise. Both are climbers. Belle Portugaise
is an interesting rose; over a hundred years old, only really suitable
for Southern California, it grew madly in the San Gabriel foothills and
Riverside County after introduction in 1903. An antique rose, it only
blooms in spring, very old school. When you see old Sunset magazines,
and you see a stylized rose on the cover, it could be Belle Portugaise.
Photo by a devoted Huntington patron, Ms. Jiyoung.
Saturday, 22 April – Completing stats for week, I note I've written 393 pages of fiction in the past 168 days.