Journal entry: June 16, 1985
It seemed important to write something every day.
I just walked home from Gretchen’s after a pleasant visit [at 363 Preble St., South Portland].
The walk from G’s via Smith Street was very pleasant. I was wearing my trench coat. The night was cool and foggy.
The air was slightly scented, especially on the downslope of Spring Street where two locust trees were in bloom. The heavy white blossoms hung low enough, and were close enough to the sidewalk, that I could smell them.
Housefronts were dark and still, or light shone through and around drawn shades. The houses themselves, the light-colored ones, were strangely bright in the foggy light from the streetlights. Rough, blurred, still strong.
It was very quiet. Even Portland seemed quiet: no slow rhythmic clanging from the foundry, no bells or whistles from boats, no hum from land traffic.
All I could hear was the slow and regular foghorn from the other side of Spring Point.
On Stanford Street a young man on crutches went swinging along. A few minutes later, as I neared my house, I heard a strange and garbled cry from up the street and turned around to see someone on a bike riding my way, still quite distant.
In my back yard objects were distinctly lit.
In my apartment the cats seem anxious.
The weekend is over. Tomorrow, I start the first work week of my 32nd year and my third week as a free-lance writer.
Right now things seem pretty good.