January 7, 2014

The picture window was frozen over with elaborate rococo patterns of ice. Odd shadows were thrown on it; the limb of a tree across the street shone in the window as though it were inches away. I thought a tree had fallen in the night, but I couldn’t think which one. The sun has obliterated the patterns now. It was a deeply cold night. Something I remember from long ago: my glasses were so fogged when I came in that I couldn’t wear them for a while. That was part of my whole youth, and it hasn’t happened for a long time.

Jolene admits she will be selling Phil Mechanic. I had imagined myself painting away there till the end of my days. I feel dispossessed.

On a related topic, I wish I had never begun the process of moving. I know why it makes me angry: sixty-five percent of it is wasted energy. I cringe looking at the boxes on my floor. Stewart is reluctant to give me a firm move-out date, and I am reluctant to be demanding or inflexible. Yet, I want to be one place or the other. Will longs for this house one day and misses an appointment to talk about it the next. I am not good at dwelling on the borderlands.

This is the firs day in my memory (since grad school) when I have been healthy and yet not left the house.

I may have finished the Lincoln cycle. The third play, in any case, is accomplished.

I am writing drunk. Hope it doesn’t show.