As I type, the night zombie is in the street screaming to no one: “Keep your opinions to yourself!” It is 6:35am and as he turns a corner, two blocks away now, the voice fades to where I can no longer make out his words. At least in the city, the dogs are mostly leashed.

Roses, submission, knitting, and Scottish Deerhounds in the park.

We meant to take a grandchild to the Japanese Garden last weekend, but we went on our own again. Two grandchildren didn’t want to get up early enough to make our 9am reservations. The youngest was wanted at home.

Our youngest grandchild’s mother broke both bones in her lower leg and was scheduling surgery. This went well, but she’s warned it will be a year of recovery. But she will be fully functional again. We visited yesterday and Gary worked on the front garden while I played games with our granddaughter. Our son got out for a walk and our daughter-in-law slept.

We are always pleased to see sighthounds. Whippets on the beach, a Borzoi at the park, and Deerhounds. The woman in the red shirt above once owned an Afghan Hound and I told her about ours. I kept up to six in show coat for many years. She had seen Afghans in Australia that were oversized. I wondered aloud if that was why Koem vdOM from Eta Pauptit’s famous K litter was sent there. He was small but already a Champion in Europe. I was commissioned to draw his portrait from photographs and in that process I discovered how excellent he was—I came to know and admire him through drawing. He became real to me.

Yesterday was Knit in Public Day, and after visiting our son and his family, I knit in public in Vancouver, Washington. The event was sponsored by Knit Picks and I picked up some overstock pattern books and cotton yarn. The silk scarf I have been working on is now more than half done. I will be glad to shift over to a different sort of project. Piecing pillow covers?

My submissions list for the novel has grown. My list of potential publishers has grown. The landscape and stories of that story continue to overwhelm my imagination, but I am reading three books: Night & Horses & the Desert by Robert Irwin places Arabic literature in context—a challenging by rewarding read. Also short stories I am not much enjoying, despite being a fan of the author, and one of P.G. Wodehouse’s Psmith novels, Psmith Journalist, which is less funny that I hoped. Everything wants to find significance in my own novel. I must resist adding chapters, scenes, and characters to my imagined world.

In the real world, the UK is warning of potential for another hot summer, smoke is lifting from New York City, Kenan Malik warns that our “fantasy fears about AI are obscuring how we already abuse machine intelligence,” and Trump is required to appear in court on Tuesday just like any ordinary citizen. The realtor who bought the house next door a couple of years ago and remodeled it at great inconvenience to the entire neighborhood, has put it on the market for three and a half million. (It’s times like these that I am grateful the county is limited since 1995 in how much it may raise my taxable home value each year to 3%. There was a year in the 1980s when the property tax on our home doubled.) And. “Four Indigenous children survived an Amazon plane crash that killed three adults and then wandered on their own in the jungle for 40 days before being found alive by Colombian soldiers.”

Overall, some balance, not an entirely bad week. Some hope. Survival.