
Rain all the night. Rain all the day. Rain even as I write. We are becoming rain rats here at feral, the lot of us.
All the dead creatures the flood scoured the woods of seem to have accumulated here. I don't find them--I don't look for them--but the disgusting doggies surely do, and with such delight anoint themselves in putrefaction, trot home with rot to gnaw on.

Each day a pet-lover's nightmare of bathing and rebathing and sterilizing and stench. So now I plan--as soon as the rain lets up--to erect a fence for a little dooryard to try and keep the dogs where I can see them. I may have enough fenceposts left. At least the ground is soft.
Today we bake bread, and start a dough for tonight's pizza, and write long letters.
My writing work has taken a surprising turn lately and I'm eager to follow its lead. Finally all those impulses--to narrative, bizarre soul journeys, feuilletons, assonance-consonance-rhythm-rhyme--achieve synthesis, gel, and I move naturally into the Next Phase. It is sweet, but will it support us? We shall see.
12:35:19 PM
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