George! You’re back. Was getting a little worried. Had figured that the weather, which you were dutifully recording over the days, had at long last taken the wind out of you. But here you are with not one, but two diary entries. I don’t know if your thoughts on barley represent some insight into Animal Farm. Was reading Daniel Levitin’s The World in Six Songs the other day, and I was struck by his observation about Paul McCartney (we don’t have newspaper cuttings here on the Internet, George, so I hope this blockquote is semi-tantamount to your prudent applique):

Similarly, Paul McCartney seemed to be trying to capture both the sound and the aesthetic essence of a forties dance-hall tune in a string of songs beginning with “When I’m Sixty-Four” (written in 1958, recorded in 1967), “Your Mother Should Know” (1967), and “Honey Pie” (1968). With each one, he got a little closer, until 1976, when he released “You Gave Me the Answer,” with production and orchestration sounding almost exactly like a Fred Astaire record. McCartney never attempted a dance hall-style song after this, and so I assume that he finally met his artistic goal and moved on to other experiments and other challenges.

I’m wondering how your current concerns about wood and barley fit in with this observation. Maybe you’ll be pursuing this question in your diary in the years to come, but to what degree, George, does your diary represent continued efforts to pinpoint the precise book you have to write? And since you expired so young, I’m hoping that your eyes didn’t close with too many regrets along these lines.

I’m sorry to report that greenheart wood (aka Chlorocardium rodiei) is now redlisted by the IUCN as a threatened species. The folks at the Orwell Estate don’t wish to point this out, but I think it’s important to place your enthusiasm in some context. I may be experiencing certain joys and pleasures that, sixty years from now, will be unthinkable. It is for this reason that I consider almost every day blessed in some sense.

I’m glad to hear that some of the blackberries have ripened and that the elder-berries have begun to grow purple! This may seem the kind of routine observation to be mocked, but I suspect those who have ridiculed your efforts fail to understand the pleasure of flora and fauna unfurling and adapting at a slow and leisurely clip.

When I get around to trying out my own efforts with lumber (sometime this year), maybe the two of us will swap some notes. Obviously, it won’t be greenheart. But I do plan to build a few bookcases. Just need to take some measurements of the apartment and draw up plans.

And thank you for referencing the Sardinian mouflon sheep on August 16. It’s a bit embarrassing, but I love the way that phrase rolls off the tip of my tongue and have uttered it a few times to ensure that it is indeed a mellifluous marvel.

Lots of work here, George, but let’s check in with each other.

George: No diary entry today? Come on, pal. I know you’ve been taking some flack because of your concern for weather and blackberries. And I know that I’m not the only one waiting around here to see just how the blackberries will redden or how you will describe other garden snakes and the like. But your diary entry encourages me to produce my own. And when you don’t write, what am I to do? Guess I’ll have to do the work for us. Somewhat hot, with an insinuation of autumn cool. Am currently hacking away at Segundo shows I need to get in the mail, reducing them to 58 minute installments. Hard and often painful job, but if someone has to make the cut, it may as well be me. Future of Segundo uncertain and may have to pull the plug after all. Future on freelancing also uncertain. But then you’re well aware of that uncertainty. Uncertainty seems to be the new certainty. But if I have to pack it in, at least I had a good run. 235 shows over three years is nothing to complain about. Nor was the newspaper work. Just wasn’t good enough to stay alive doing this. That’s capitalism for you. Or maybe social Darwinism. Of course, once one has tasted the nectar of the gods, it’s a bit difficult to go back to tepid tap water. Which was probably why I drank so heavily last night. Still, I remain pro-active, hoping for an eleventh hour reprieve stemming not from fortune or coincidence, but my own industry. We’ll see.

George: Good to hear from you. No mist here, but some rain. Windows closed, so no mist inside. But I do wonder what kind of snuff-box you’re using and whether I should be using one. Surfaces of desk are laden with books and papers. On deadline and all. Also damned lazy. What have you been reading these days? Can you at least spill this much to us? Not as hot here as it was last week. There was rain in the morning and there may be rain in the afternoon. The super here cowers at grass snakes, doubt he has even seen one, but is braver when it comes to catching mice and cockroaches. Even though he seems to leave these duties to the tenants. I wonder what you’d think of the early 21st century American class system. Suspect there’s some beauty here in New York, although there are many glum faces. Spoke to a man in the elevator yesterday. Both of us agreed that it was the economy that was making it hard for both of us, but we planned to carry on surviving. Georgia’s on my mind. Saved a cabbie last night from a possible accident when I shouted at him to turn on his lights as he was driving. Was he absent-minded or as glum as the guy in the elevator? You tell me, George. By now, I suspect you may be coming up for air.