(original journal entry)
saturday 26 september, 1992
swallows sweep low around the house, my black floaters swim low across the landscape.
john adam's "wound dresser" makes me feel quite weepy. there are moments in this unequal battle against the hiv when one is overcame, then someone arrives to rescue you.
this morning my american airman wrote from his airbase, he and his friend are off to ireland, he's at the delightful age of co-incidence. i wrote last week about wittgenstein who he could not find in the base library but he had bought a second-hand book on klimt and stumbled across the portrait of margaret in the white dress.
then three young gardeners stopped by, they were from holland and had made for prospect on the way to great dixter, they spent over an hour here and were amused by the formal garden in front of the house and the informal one at the back.
i played the wound dresser again, this time no tears, there are now more swallows than floaters circling the house. the garden has never looked better, there are enough flowers splashed here and there, all is neat and tidy so the circles show well, the rain has kept everything green and healthy, the hosepipe ban which could do in the plants that have not established themselves had no effect, everything has seeded: valerian, poppies, cornflower, teazle, mallow, even the large thistles though the slugs eat them as fast as they grow.
my american airman is called cary doucette, little sweetie, he is in love with another airman who shares his bed behind very tightly drawn curtains.
