Twenty years ago when I moved to Washington and went to Don Giovanni starring Erwin Schrott, I did not know that I was destined for a decade of increasing heartaches culminating in a bonanza of heartache that ultimately calibrated my soul with insight my soul had been waiting for its whole life. Till then I never understood the adage that failure and despair can be elucidating and strengthening. All that was unbeknownst to me twenty years ago.

The cherry blossoms were duly out in the cool gray evening. Cherry blossoms don’t ordinarily grab me but I will admit they looked nice. Giant pandas don’t really grab me either, even though everyone is constantly raving about how adorable they are. There were no cafés to stop at as I proceeded on my way to the opera hall. That’s the nature of this town—all business. Methodical, plodding, no cafés for boulevardiers and bohemians. There are no bohemians or boulevardiers in Washington. So I just sat and read for an hour in the hall, being early.

Ever since I started keeping my diary of remorse, my remorse has evaporated. The answer to a personality problem or spiritual malaise is to keep a diary of it because then the quantity you are quantifying seems to disappear. Therefore I should go on to keep a diary of other troubling quantities. Such as Diary of Lassitude, Lack of Motivation, Failure to Act, etc.

I see that my interest in my volunteer job (of monitoring justice in the New Orleans criminal courts) is largely prurient.

The last time I saw Walker Percy, who lived across Lake Pontchartrain in Covington, a giant storm was rolling in over the bridge—the longest bridge in the world—that I would be driving on to get back home. We looked out at the gathering storm and he said, “Delery, the next half hour is going to be good for your soul.”

Because fear is good for the soul? The way despair can make you notice things more? That is the whole point of everything—to notice things more. But I don’t know exactly what he meant, as I suspect his comment had a religious connotation; he was a zealous Catholic convert. Good for the soul like the bracing fear of the wrath of God? Or when you think you are lost, salvation is near?

Adelaide was in town working at an anarchist bookstore. We met for coffee after work. I had spent most of the day in Judge Blanchard’s courtroom. His comportment was dignified and sincere and he kept order and was respected and everything ran smoothly in his courtroom. It’s just that he has no charisma.

Judge Blanchard was associated with vastly lowering the bail bonds of gang members, which would make Adelaide proud but many others worried.

Things sometimes got dicey when Adelaide’s inability to modulate her crusade against injustice in a social setting clashed with certain members of the establishment—such as my stepmother—and I had to mediate or gloss things over.

Adelaide says I have Stockholm syndrome for my stepmother.

Then she rushed off to a leftist picnic.