February 8, 2015

Thwarted in my previous plans, I instead have two glorious days at the studio, renewed in pleasure and determination. Finished one work. Remade another, Experimented with pastels. Opened the window a tentative inch. Was gone and on my way before anyone else entered the building.

Pruned the roses in the spring light. There are twenty of them (I could never count them in my head, had to see them before me) though two look like they might be winter casualties. Lawrence floats in a hall of crystal under his ice roof. Sat down this vernal afternoon in a lawn chair with my chest bare to the sun. I dozed. I had waking dreams. Even an hour after I came in I felt the gentle hand of him on me, the white sun in glory. Maybe bake this contagion out of me.

Went to L’s book reading at Edna’s last night. Rick and I and a handsome teenager towed by his mother were three men amid, I would guess, seventy lesbians. That much pure middle-aged lesbian energy takes one aback. Rowdy and oddly boyish. They were far more focused on the joy of being together than on the event itself. Still, had I written The Last Book That Will Ever Be Written, I couldn’t get that many men in a room to hear me.

Great crows gliding onto the front lawn by twos and threes.