The vet was out to see a cow yesterday and we sought free advice on Gracie’s aging and well used joints. He said we could give her an aspirin on days she seemed a little stiff. He said she was a big enough dog that she could have two.

She will be nine years old this fall. She had sore back foot for a while. It would get better and then she would overuse it - Gracie is not a dog for moderation - and would be limping again. It’s pretty much all better now. But getting up from full rest is sometimes an effort.

Gracie is a great dog. I was going to say she was the greatest dog we’ve ever had but then I’m remembering Stinky and the Husky and short-lived Carl, the Big Woof and even other minor players in the lives of people and dogs. They are all great.

But Gracie is our current dog and she truly is great.

==============================

I’m reading a Penguin biography of [James Joyce written by Edna O’Brien].(http://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/310070/james-joyce-by-edna-obrien/9780143119937/). It’s a little book, short, easy to read. Makes you wonder how much of your soul (or your normal life) you’d give up to be a genius. I guess that’s an idle concern. Genius is not conferred that easily. But still like van Gogh, ‘he suffered for his art’. Of course he made other people suffer too. As we all do. Just the scale is different.

*Vincent
Don McLean
Starry
Starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey

Look out on a summer’s day
With eyes that know the
Darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils

Catch the breeze and the winter chills

In colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They did not know how

Perhaps they’ll listen now.

Starry
Starry night
Flaming flo’rs that brightly blaze

Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent’s eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain

Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist’s
Loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free.
Perhaps they’ll listen now.

For they could not love you
But still your love was true

And when no hope was left in sight on that starry
Starry night.
You took your life
As lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
This world was never
Meant for one
As beautiful as you.

Starry
Starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls

Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes
That watch the world and can’t forget.
Like the stranger that you’ve met

The ragged men in ragged clothes

The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken
On the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me

How you suffered for your sanity

How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
They’re not
List’ning still
Perhaps they never will.
*

Also reading bits and pieces of The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard. Great book. The east and west after WWII. What do my Aussies think of her? Of her picture of Australia and New Zealand?

It’s Saturday. We are working from five till eleven.

Then we go to town to pick up the ‘new’ tractor. It’s having something done to its steering. Not related to tilt, I’m pretty sure.

I need to get some groceries. I’m looking for ideas. New stuff. Easy stuff. Stuff we will and can eat. Suggestions?

NOte: came back and looked at the entry. Some interesting but unintentional formatting. Oh well.

Last updated May 06, 2017