November 8, 2011

Ordered a used copy of Millay’s “Fatal Interview.” The inscription on the cover page reads, “To Deedie from Jay, 3-24-‘37.

At last count, five tasks have risen up to interfere with the studio stroll this weekend. I think I’ll just give it up. Angry and frustrated by this, even recalling that the stroll is usually more exhausting and futile than it is rewarding. There is always the hope, though, of some break-through, of some resonant contact–unless one isn’t there. Oh well. Most of what I have taken on to "enrich" life makes me miserable, though I keep on doing it lest one day I regret giving up, in case the very day I quit is the very one which would have made it all worthwhile. Proofs of Satan abound.

The moon, nearly full, rebounds off the galvanized aluminum pool on the back terrace and lights my whole room slant through the window.