May 12, 2013

Somehow it had gotten stuck in my head that yesterday was the studio stroll. It wasn’t, but I did go to the studio and painted to my heart’s content. Weeding when I came back, until the rains came again. Some revising then before the light waned.

Reacted badly– prima-dona-like– at a suggestion Sidney made about the play. Aside from the virtue of the suggestions, what it revealed to me (again) is the degree to which I loathe the protracted, to which I detest repetition. Persistence is a bad technique to use on me. It does not wear me away, but rather turns me to adamant. Ring my phone five times and you can be sure I will never, ever answer. S has been worried about the ages and birthdays of Lincoln’s sons since the outset. I have won the argument a dozen times (having, really and truly, done my research beforehand) and when I heard his voicemail, still concerned about the matter, I went, momentarily, ballistic. I did manage to see his point and did retract my refusal to consider it again. I hope my compromise is remembered rather than my enraged rejection of the entire issue. It is practically organic, though; if an issue rises once I think I have laid it to rest, murder comes into my heart.

Cold today, but blazing bright. Weeded monumentally. Wrote at the café.