June 7, 2009

Deafening chorus of birdcalls, Dawn is skim-milk blue in one ribbon in the east. Left the lights on all night, but Jason never came “home.” He said he was going to be working at the studio hard and late, but it didn’t keep me from feeling like a wife abandoned on the second night of the honeymoon. Solitary life spares many hours of soul-searching.

I wonder if I was thrown together in the studio with J to teach me meticulousness. Or him dispatch. I think I am done with a painting when the image is realized clearly. He is after something else. He is after full brotherhood with Rembrandt and Vermeer. I can’t analyze whether my attitude is the same for writing, because my writing is so immediate and instinctive I really don’t know how it’s done.

Dream last night of writing my dissertation, with the professor passing through the room every now and then to judge the progress. I think that was the signal for me to get back to work on the new play, which I was doing before I paused to write this, and which I will do after.