April 14, 2017

I’m going to write a book called “Watering Meditation,” where you gather and dissipate wild thoughts while watering your garden. It’s the most calming thing I do in a day’s time.

The Solomon’s seal is blooming in the shady corner of the fence. The Jack-in-the-pulpits arise and unfold, including one which skipped last year altogether. I thought it was dead, but here comes the emerald spear.  

R brings his absurdly beautiful eyes to the studio, to see if he wants to rent a little space from me. I felt he had decided against it, probably because he is very neat and I, at the studio, am a slob. But a slob who is painting well and inventively at the moment.

Loving Gogol. The High Five is, for some reason, the perfect place for Dead Souls.

Maunday Thursday service lovely, though the protracted and leisurely removal of all vanities from the church tested my patience. The point of a symbol is that it is symbolic. I try to think of foot washing in the same vein as the scriptures suggest; I do not manage, quite.  What is the modern equivalent? Donating an organ? Paying the rent? Nothing seems intimate enough. Passionate sermon. Grumpy drive home through the night. Rage at Maud for vomiting on the couch. She knows very well what I mean, and when I begin shouting, looks at the vomit and runs out of the room.