April 10, 2016

Dark of frozen morning, heading toward Cary in less than an hour. Yesterday was one of those days when every detail went wrong. A wrong movement, and you double over with muscle spasms. You meet someone to do him a favor–a major favor–and he’s an hour late. Get to your destination without the stuff you needed to bring. Answer the wrong phone call. Open the seltzer water and it explodes. Way past accident or coincidence. Ending with an essentially sleepless night. Art opening in the evening. It was festive, I guess, but for every ten people in the hall one entered my studio. I can’t figure that out. The lights were on. Cookies and wine stood on a table at the door. Welcome breathed from every canvas. Months ago I sent Night Sleep to a regional publisher, and I was told that it was accepted for publication. Not a word since. Neighbor Elizabeth comes into the studio and says her twelve year old daughter had written a book that those same people are publishing, and would I like to write an introduction? Exquisite, Lord. Exquisite. But I did sell a little painting, The Burning City, to the musician. Was that meant to make up for everything? Anything? Lay down a little, studying my lines for The Winter’s Tale. When I nodded off to sleep I immediately began to dream an alternate version.