Dear Cyndy,

How fortunate that it was your computer rather than yourself
that was indisposed. There's no reason, once we're in Virginia
not to continue our e-mail exchanges ad lib. As I've explained,
and you have probably forgotten, I have a computer on the porch
there which I turn on (and off) by telephone each day. When
the computer "comes up", as they say, it opens a connection
to the Internet by means of which I retrieve seven surveillance
images. As of 2:30 p.m. today, everything seemed to be in good
order.

My mind, however, is not. I'm perplexed that my writing, such
as it is, compounds the complexities of my existence, rather than
reducing them. I am more and more convinced that language, the
sentence and the word, are the seeds of thought. Perhaps all
writing should be read as poetry, only occasionally good, but
sometimes very poor, and then virtually meaningless, as the case
might be.

Yesterday I had a telephone call from a house painter, a Mr. Tango
who was looking for work. He came over at 2:30 to inspect what
needed to be done. He was very congenial, not at all critical of
my unorthodoxies, and this morning, nominally at 8:00 a.m. but
actually at 8:45, he arrived and started to paint. His two helpers
are his wife and a college-aged stepson. He will come back tomorrow
and probably the day after, which is Thursday, leaving me with a
house that looks much more presentable.

That engagement makes me feel much older. I'm acutely aware that
the work on the ladder which I was able to do a year ago is now
far beyond me, largely on account of my arthritic right hip.
Worse is sure to come, and the anticipation reminds me of Edgar
(King Lear) who said, the worst is not when we can say, this is
the worst, a somber thought with which I will leave you. Stay
well.

Jochen