Had to get up at 6, so that one caregiver could leave and to let another in at 7. (I don’t know who’s reading this or cares, but if you wonder: if you are in the house, why does your father have a 24 hr. caregiver - even this hour gap between shifts was rare. Well, first, ask him. Second, I’m here for a few weeks at a time, the routine is very…routine, and the ladies of the agency would obviously rather work steadily than piecemeal. It would be too disruptive to cut their hours, and possibly lose the most reliable entirely, when I’m around. Last, I’m not going to help him bathe [though I did a good deal of physically intimate work when he was very ill on 2017.]) Skimmed most of a book on “writing in flow,” w/ a lot of excerpts from author interviews, mainly poets and novelists. I don’t think the terms are that useful to me, and it’s notably that no one in the relevant chapters on blocks, resistance, fear + anxiety and the like say much about guilt over the selfishness of a writing life, and none gives that a political (class privilege) spin. Everyone thinks they deserve or have earned all the time they need.
Took a ride to Claremont Farmer’s Market around 10. Eggs, tomatoes, almonds, berries, and 2 books at the stall that the prison library charity sets up - a little pb of Auden’s The Enchanted Flood, and Showalter’s anthology of feminist criticism. Came home, read 10 p. on Williams and 75 of Boyer. Took my dad to lunch at 12:30. Fine, back about 2. Turned around and went to the office - though by way of downtown Upland, where I bought a Jackie Wilson LP w/ versions of “Light My Fire” and “This Bitter Earth” at a generally not-great record shop b/c (not Penny Lane, saving that for later in the trip), and a new coffee place called Lucky’s that I think is trying to be classier than Rad, and finally the actual Prison Library bookstore, where I picked up Gerald Posner’s Motown book and some poetry (Garrett Caples, Alfred Starr Hamilton, the rest are in the car). Worked 3-6 trying, w/o much luck, to cut down and reorganize TPA material. Listened to disc 2 of the 1967 Motown set on today’s drives — best lesser-known song on this one is Barbara McNair’s Smokey-penned “Here I Am Baby.” Back at 7, dinner. Didn’t go out. Read 20 p. on Williams, and a good bit of Stephanie Young’s Pet Sounds. Opening poems is powerful, and I’m entertained by the digs at Greil Marcus re Van Morrison’s relationship to black culture, some of the other personal/political material isn’t my cuppa. The overall worldview is akin to Boyer’s (as I already knew). Probably fell asleep around 11.