November 11, 2010

Kimberly Road alive with flags for Veterans’ Day.

Sacred and Profane Love finally arrived from the National Gallery, London. It is more meaningful to me than I fully understand at the moment.

Had a meltdown at the studio when I was attacked by Henry the dog. For the third time. Heather, his owner, said it was my fault for not being there more so the dog would know me better. I said it wasn’t my place to cater to the psychology of a dog, but hers to keep it under control. Etc. The dog and I have been friends in the past; he had slept in my studio, suffered my petting, and to have forgotten me is indicative of some sort of doggie retardation that I haven’t the time to help them through. I thought that my outburst would make me a pariah on the second floor, but no such thing. In fact, L and A, having lunch at the table upstairs as I left, were tenderly and gratuitously kind to me. They seemed astonished to hear that I had never used the elevator and had dragged everything up to my studio up the winding cement stairs on my own back. L looked at me with expression one reserves for the very pitiable. It is true that I get notions into my head that I don’t shake on my own and yet inconvenience me terribly: YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO USE THE ELEVATOR. . . .YOU HAVE TO HITCHHIKE BECAUSE NOBODY WOULD LET YOU RENT A CAR. . . NOBODY IS GOING TO GIVE YOU A MORTGAGE. . . X MIGHT BE LEAVING TOWN, BUT YOU’RE NOT ONE OF THOSE SHE WANTS TO SEE BEFORE SHE GOES. . . YOU CAN'T ASK YOUR NEW EMPLOYERS TO HELP YOU FIND AN APARTMENT. . . YES I KNOW IT’S YOUR TURN, BUT YOU DAREN’T ASK. . .This conviction of negative entitlement has cost me more labor, perhaps, than anything else in my life. I even assumed that I could protest being attacked by a dog because I was somehow not part of the “group.” Turns out Henry has had his turn with everybody. This is not most people's experience of me; they probably think of me as forward and direct, and that is true, too, so how I pick the things to be timid about is an ongoing mystery.

Glorious day, but maybe too glorious. I look at the dirt over the billion or so bulbs I’ve planted, saying delaying spells so the bulbs don’t think it’s spring.