November 20, 2019

Bitter dream last night. It wasn’t bitter at first. Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, showed up at my door and lured me out into the sunshine to play. They wanted me to follow them, and I did, through a golden wood. As we walked a certain familiarity infused the scene, and I realized they were my unborn children. I could not endure it.

Carlos said Night, Sleep was ready, and asked me when I’d like to pick them up, and I told him. When I got to the gallery in Black Mountain, he was not there and neither were the books. The lady said that she had read it and thought it was wonderful, and I tried to let that mollify me, but it did not. I walked into the parking lot and had a, for me, rare fit of ungoverned rage. Rage turned into exhaustion, and once I was home I lay in bed until it was time for rehearsal. I waited beyond four years since BMP said “yes” to the book, had to use my own money finally to get it printed in my lifetime. Someone might say one more day shouldn’t make a difference, but it made all the difference, an affront calculated,  petty, cruel, mean, gratuitous. God is a bad friend and a bad Father.  I could barely stir from the bed.

Note from Red Hen that my check– for a prize won in 2017– was delayed still further because my address on the W-4 did not match the one they had on file. I think I wrote, “Use any address you want, send the fucking check.” I don’t know if I really wrote that.