September 15, 2013

A quick glance is usually sufficient, though in the last few days the failure to scrutinize carefully has caused me a lot of work. Reprinting a manuscript now that was not prepared according to instructions. Cancelled one reservation and got another for New York, as I had the wrong meeting day in mind, trading an elegant and streamlined schedule for a protracted and laborious one.

Twice at the studio yesterday. Left the first time because I was exhausted. Left the second time because my neighbor was pounding an old table to pieces with a hammer. The a-rhythmic bangs could not long be endured.

Bought a bar from Mary Alice on her moving day. I thought I was helping a troubled lady, but it turns out the bar was exactly what I needed, an appropriate altar to the place of alcohol in my life.

Looking wearily toward church. People feel things slipping and dig in with their fingers, frantically trying to hold tighter. This is always a mistake.

I realize I never seek to talk problems or emotions out, and feel uncomfortable (and ambushed) on those occasions when it appears to be required. That’s what art is for.

Wondrous, almost unnatural silence outside my window. Even the breathing of the cat is loud beside it.

The manuscript I had to redo was Me with a White Rose in My Hand.