June 11, 2008

Blast-furnac-y and arid as it is, the water gardens are full, and nothing in the garden is wilted enough to require an application of hose. I bless the heavens for this, and pray that it happens again today.

Biked to school this morning. It’s not a long distance to a crow, but the hills will be annihilating for a while. I rode up them all in my caterpillar low gear, but had to gasp out such an oxygen debt at the finish that it hardly seemed worth it. Dawn saw me as she was coming to work and said I looked cute. That is all I ask. This afternoon I’ve been keeping just ahead of the agonizing muscle cramps my body wants to descend into, stretching violently, drinking water when I feel the twinges begin to gather.

Have been painting well toward my show in September. Not only do I like the look of the pieces when they’re finished, but I have fun doing them, and if we can just get patrons to like them, some, the circle will be complete. Richmond says he likes the texture, but I don’t know if he likes anything else. When people pick out one element to admire, I assume they’re grasping at something favorable to say in the face of a mass of crap. He waits for an invitation to look, as if they were sacred or private, whereas I barge in on him without thinking twice. There’s an element in our imagination, Richmond’s and mine, that is very much alike, a sort of Baroque religious streak that in me emerges as complicated symbolism and in him as allegory. His figures are rough and muddy, but it is possible that’s part of the vision. Even I admit how strange my paintings can be, but I also think many of them are funny, and I count that as a kind of salvation. It amazes me still that I should be able to paint. I went thirty years without its ever crossing my mind to do so.

Mornings before the heat are unbelievably productive. Evenings after the heat are unbelievably productive. I should simply relinquish the middle, instead of fighting it, as I am doing now, sweating behind the keyboard, longing for a cocktail.