Wednesday

(I never know what day it is anymore.)  I can feel the tension from other peoples' fear and anger fill my body until I'm about to break.  I let it get to me, I should have tuned it out.  I had to go.  Out.  Walk.  Get it out of my system.  First thought was the frogs, then the herons.  On the way, I pass through the crab apple grove, in bloom.  If I could be in love with a tree, it would be a crab apple in bloom.  Lovely.  The roses are still asleep, dreaming of summer.  One heron flies over, lands on the upmost branches of the rookery.  Lots of nests, but quiet today.  The frogs are in hiding, one eventually shows its face, crawling briefly up from the harbor of the leaf it's in.  The greenhouse is warm and smells sweet.  There is a cacao plant with fruit in one of the rooms, but I'm not sure if that's the scent.  The greenhouse is very peaceful.

Outside the sky spits rain on my face and the wind buffets me, an indecisive storm.  Wood ducks swim and dive in the fountain as I walk past.  Made some preliminary decisions regarding one of the class projects which makes me feel less stressed, and a rehearsal for the other one tonight has been set.  I called a housing authority this morning about an apartment, $1020 for a studio.  Yikes.  And then applied for an acting job that pays, so keeping my fingers crossed.  Spoke to a man about a house, I'm not sure if the rooms are a good fit, but his voice was very calming.  One way or another, something will be decided in two weeks.

Here's a Walt Whitman poem:

Miracles

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
     the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
     with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer  
     forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so  
     quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
     the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
     the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

- Walt Whitman