A glimpse here, extreme left, of Claire’s work in progress: a stage of her portrait of Oriole 9 curator Lenny Kislin. Another glimpse, extreme right: laptop screen and hand – the final draft of Dr. Cicero’s grammar book (5 years of work!), Where Did You Get That Bitch?, receives its very last edits.

Newly out, Richard’s Feet (old cover seen here alongside the new), re-published by Enedeavour Press as a Kindle e-book.

And a glimpse, from outside, of Harrison at work at night in his heavenly study, with Buddhist blessings on the wall behind and mementoes all around.

From Indian summer to first frosts and October snow. Everyone girding their loins for winter, as we try to batten down our hatches preparatory to leaving for the tropics, next month. We made our annual pilgrimage – for the first time not on a motorbike, now that it’s sold, but by car, up Platte Clove, along Legs Diamond’s old smuggling route, to spy out the turning leaves. A day of alternating snow-flurries and sunshine.

Two of my best-ever students, Conrad and Andy, devised a new magazine, the Brooklyn College Review (seen below with the gorgeous cover image of its inaugural issue), and very kindly featured me in it, along with an excerpt from Dog’s Mercury, dubbed (by me) A Lady’s Shoe. The Dog’s Mercury launch went well – Claire took a pic of me as I set out for it, backed by some of her superb portraits for her own upcoming show.

Lovely to see so many dear loyal pals at the Golden Notebook bookstore, crammed into its tiny upstairs room. Not Barnes & Noble by any means, but a good deal nicer. We sold every copy, which was exceptionally gratifying. Dear Dennis was there as always, seen here with Jojo, and so many others – Peter, Raymond, Ashley, Betsy Tuel, John Froud, Dorothea, Tom Unrath, lots more squeezed into the corridor at the back, and the top of the stairs.

Since then, at Jen Dragon’s Contempirary Cross Art gallery, Mark Kanter and George Quasha in dialog amid Mark’s fine exhibition….

Back again to Woodstock; to the country. Or as Wm Gass has it, the heart of the heart of the country. After long drought, huge rainstorm provides mushrumps’ delight. Witness Claire with dinner late-sized agaric; for the first time in years, we picked pounds & pounds of ceps in Wittenberg Park. There were hundreds of pounds on show.

Back to my swimming routine at the Y. And to old Y regulars. Amng them Jack Mullen, artist and foundryman, seen here in his new hat.

Listening on NPR to accounts of Putin explicit about ignoring ISIS and attacking the CIA-trained & financed ‘moderate Syrian forces’ opposed to Assad, by land (‘volunteer Russian forces,’ as in Ukraine) and air. And right now e-e-e-e-veryone just lookin’ de other way. Putin must be giggling up his Cossack sleeves. Mind you, Onkel Adolf too figured Yanks wuz wimps (he loved Hollywood), and look where that got him. Then again, maybe they’s wimps now.

Classic dream last night. All those who like me hate hearing people’s dreams, skip this para. In the dream I’m in a large cafe in Athens. (The night before Claire mentioned Athena, a friend of ours; when I misheard, Claire was obliged to repeat her name.) I’m waiting for the arrival of a pal, the late Jeremy Paul; then it’s the next day but same place and Jeremy never came and I’m now waiting for another pal, the very much alive Steve Wilson. Who also never shows up. (Yesterday, Lupe, who helps us with our garden on Mondays, mysteriously never came; likewise ‘Lady Rooter,’ a sewer management company, also never came as scheduled by them, to give us an estimate on our new drain field.) Instead I meet a black guy in the cafe and we hit it off. (Last night we had dined at New World Home Cooking and been waited on by a black guy, who vanished for a long while after I asked for the check, causing me to reduce his tip for 20% to 18%, and then was shamed by the fact that he nonetheless ran after me with the scarf – first time of needing one since the spring – that I had left behind.) The black guy persuades me to return to Brooklyn with him – it turns out that we are both Brooklyn College students, in the dream. I’m not sure whether to leave but in the end I do, only to lose sight of him in the tram we both catch. Then I notice my cellphone isn’t in my pocket. (Daily event.) At the next tram stop (funny cute narrow blue and white trams, white with blue trim) I exit the tram to head back to the cafe, but… have no idea how to get back to it. No idea where it is. This is my recurrent dream: I go somewhere, whether through streets or across land or sea, and later wish to return but the dream has run out of memory. It feels like a significant issue: can’t find his way home. Actually it isn’t. Has nothing to do with inability to retrace steps in life. It’s a perfect novelist’s nightmare, though: we think in terms of lengthy narrative. Dream thinks in terms of footsteps in the snow – i.e. vanishing behind you. Look back and no trace. Dream isn’t built to make a lasting coherent chain you could retrace.

One of the many fine memories of our tour: my treasured friend Dudley overlooking his acres. Our first long talks at Cambridge, now more than 50 years ago, have continued unfailingly over the years. How long has he been looking out over Abberton reservoir – is it 40 years? Close to that. Before and since his Abbertonian tenure (for a few years, at the end of the ’60s, I was his colleague at the University of Essex, thanks to his good offices) we’ve debated everything under the sun, through youth and middle age and now into advancing age. As with my oldest friend, Steve – it’ll soon be 60 years we’ve been hashing over the lives of the head and the heart, a little calmer these days, and is it wiser, or simply more rueful? – what a singular privilege to have known such loyal and deep-thinking companions of an entire life!
Next photo features Claire and a quasi-legendary ancient, Father Woodstock, largely addressed now as Grandfather Woodstock, a colorful fellow who blesses the town from a small eminence – bench or stool – with arm tirelessly raised. As Bishop of Woodstock I revere him.

Miscellany of snapshots since our return. Rosie Wilson, seen here toasting her college graduation with champagne (but.. wasn’t she born just the other day? Steve’s Rosie! Chiara’s contemporary…). A lovely fan of diverse foliage about our neighbors (sic) Paul and Sheri’s house. A small airplane! – which brought my old college pal and erstwhile publish Karl Sabbagh to visit me in Woodstock, piloted by his friend Jeff, the plane’s owner. They were accompanied by Jeff’s wife, a most celebrated astronaut: Katie Collins, veteran of 3 space flights and 3 space walks. Then a joyous reunion with my composer-colleague, Jimmy, at a well-known Upper West Side diner.

I’m blissfully ensconced in a tiny study room in our studio/cottage, while tenants, with two young daughters, fill our house and poolside with happy shrieks. We’ll be away through the winter, so are grateful for paying occupants. Here’s my room, its contents and the lovely view. I’ve discovered that facing north is the best: what you see is what the sun lights, without blinding you in the process. And yes, hanging from the doorknob of the Dr. Cicero bookcase, largely occupied by my books, many of them from my beloved publisher, Dr. Cicero: yes, that is my Dad, in accessory-from-the-Dr.Dolittle-movie doll-shape, peeping from a carrier bag.