I had such a good day yesterday--first walking around Lewiston in a cold wind with my friend Dave, trudging along the river, gawking over the falls, winding through the square milltown streets, the sidewalks nearly empty, just an occasional man with dog, man on bench, man in doorway, but everywhere the cars driving away and away and away. And then we drove away ourselves, to the outskirts, where I read and chatted for an hour to residents at a retirement home. Maybe ten or twelve people showed up, more than I expected, really, and they listened and a few talked about their own memories, what it felt like to try to capture them, the longing to write something down, to make a mark. It was very moving, and I was glad to be there, glad to be talking to them, offering small suggestions or just listening as their own stories burst from them. The urge toward storytelling is so strong in our kind.

Today will be much quieter--back to my desk, to other people's manuscripts, to the murmur of my house, though tonight T and I will go out to a movie, an old Carol Reed flick whose title I can't remember. I haven't done much writing of my own lately, but I know it will come back to me . . . it always does. I never can quit this job: it demands my life.

Ways of being in the world: I've been thinking about that lately. How surprising it is to get old. How surprising it is to get a diagnosis. How surprising it is to suddenly glimpse oneself in the mirror of a watcher. The question: Is that what I've been the whole time? How terrible.

Or how funny. How brave. How curious. Our thousand thousand selves. Transparent and opaque. Invisible tap dancers in the upstairs apartment. Secret messages sent by imaginary carrier pigeons. Our own dear vulnerable skin.