Well, I must say that what a difference a day makes. This day dawned not quite so brightly as yesterday. Of course, I headed down the hill, the great downslope of life, toward that which lies below, vis-à-vis, mercantile San Francisco. Shopping. For most Americans, when there is no other social activity available, there is the need to buy. So armed with Jane’s list, off I went. The world should be full of promise at 8:30 AM. Why not? Things are opening, getting under way, hope springing eternal. The crêpe place was moving out its sidewalk tables. The Taqueria was getting its morning delivery of tortillas. There was the smell of coffee being ground at the local café. But something was off. Perhaps it was simply the cloudy weather, the San Francisco summer. Or more likely it was the reappearance of masks. Everywhere. Yes, outside.

For me, there is also a slight loss of purpose, which can be partly attributed to my current loss of structure.  Having completed a draft of a book, suddenly there is no big project weighing upon me. Nothing major that I have to do each day. Which means that each day has to be created afresh. There is a certain superstructure, largely composed of physical exercise. I try to do something aerobic every day. I need to stand a certain amount. Stuff like that. But beyond these basic physiotherapy tasks, a huge void looms.

One way to fill that void is to head for the greenhouse. Even on a cloudy day, the interior feels sunny. It also feels warm, because it is. I mean, it’s not just an expression, the greenhouse effect. Anyway, I roll down there, shut the door and sit surrounded by tomatoes, lettuce and fava beans. The space is enclosing, pleasantly warm, slightly humid and generally cozy. I read. Sometimes I play a podcast and stand. Invariably, I end up doing a bit of watering, even some weeding. And all around me is a chorus of photosynthesis. It is the place to be. I spend hours there every week.

Today I am going to begin a novel by Edward Wallant. The Pawnbroker is his most famous work. This one actually appeared later, I think, the Tenants of Moonbloom. I stumbled upon this through the usual roundabout route that seems to lead to all good reading these days. Needless to say Wallant writes about Jewish life in New York. The novel I’m about to start is set in the 1930s. Perhaps even written then. I am short on details. But long on interest. And very much in need of some quality time in the glass house. More soon.