August 20, 2017

So for a week I have been immersed in imaginary worlds, doing important revisions or completions of Night Sleep, The One with the Beautiful Necklaces, and Sam-sam. The energy of writing and revision is the energy that goes into journaling, apparently. I’d rather be writing the novels. Steady, if slow rise in my spirits since the bottom, which came soon after the return from Ireland. Reason for ascent? Nothing–nothing actually changed except maybe that the writing has been going well. My damnable resilience, which, like hope, is the last affliction. Unexpected pleasure from making a vast pot of chili/stew from my own eggplant and my own whopping harvest of red and yellow tomatoes. Cleaned the pond filter and found a minnow that was flat out pink. Dredging up old manuscripts, which are by and large good, but the problem now was the problem then–what to do with them? How to bring them to conclusion? Pink hibiscus. White swamp hibiscus. Cosmos and cornflower.