October 24, 2009

Red leaves of the dogwood fill my bedroom window.

Got almost all the remaining bulbs in yesterday, moments before the rain began to fall. I emptied the mostly-spoiled barrel of last year’s sunflower seeds on the plumbing- ravaged front slope, thinking viable seeds might root, and I’d have a ribbon of sunflowers in the spring rather than a red scar.

Spent hours at the studio today, not doing much painting, but getting it put together for the time when it is mine alone. I think the space is workable. I’m happy when Alex or Logan come in to borrow something or to chat. It makes me think I will not be isolated. Visitors before were always for J, or so I thought. The Flood suffers from a plague of stink bugs (who knows why?), just now dying and leaving behind pebble-colored envelopes of chitin.

FT’s book of plays continues to be an opportunity almost buried beneath infuriating, minuscule, and never-ending corrections of format. I would have let the “opportunity” pass had I known it would be such a lead weight on the spirit. Her scolding tone eased a little when we realized my lack of response (for which I had been roundly chastised) was the result of her sending materials to the wrong email address.