November 9, 2006
This afternoon I made a half-hearted attempt to visit F. S. Whinkla but was forced back after half an hour of slogging through viscous red mud. Twice my feet pulled loose from my rubber boots. If I hadn't been so cold it would have been hysterical. I'm a little concerned about Whinkla's situation after all this rain. Has the normally dry lake filled with water and nibbled at the foundation of his castle? Have any of the ancient trees toppled onto his bothy? Is his wine cellar intact and still reasonably dry? And those signed first editions! Better not to think about it I suppose. If I don't hear from or about him in the next week or so I'll try again, that is if the rain stops. I'm sure I'll find him with his nose in a book on Dada, or reading aloud the poetry of Jeffers or Dylan Thomas to the Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, or perhaps reading a biography on some obscure paint dauber or juggler of words, or scanning a magazine on classic sport cars or Somoan tattoos. "What rain?" he'll probably say. He is ever the surprise.