January 20, 2013

Conversations with Allison at Milkweed Editions. It turns out that Bird Songs of the Mesozoic is still in print, but A Sense of the Morning is not. Turns out also that I can retrieve the rights to both those books, through a process that will be revealed in a few days.

Excellent day in the studio, except that it had flooded again, in all those torrents of rain. My vigilance had been imperfect, and this time a canvas was ruined. Stopped by the art store for fixative (liked the store clerk immediately), bought a nasty, undrinkable cappuccino next door, went to the studio and painted away. Until Marco called. He needs money, but will not let me give him money. Instead he offers me welded objects and handmade canvases for sale in various sizes, which I suppose will be useful someday. Adam called to have lunch, but I noticed the call too late to do so. He was in town for an important Outdoor Theater audition. Made me wish, to a minimal degree, that I had chosen that life, the life of an actor, and not let it be totally excluded by the life of a writer. Frank borrowed the truck to get materials for an art wall at the Apothecary. He gladdens my heart, though I don’t know yet exactly what I’m doing there. Providing funds, I suppose, which may have been the intention of the gods.

White primrose and hellebore blooming. The hellebore petals seem to have been gnawed by something.

Sat in the café trying to get started on a funny, witty version of Robin Hood for the stage. A little voice whispered, “Why are you wasting time on this crap?”

The longest and most complicated dream. . . .