Hayward // MacDowell

I don’t know how they get artists to leave at the end of their residencies. Maybe they send in a SWAT team with shovels and scrapers. Heartless German governesses who unstick our grasping fingers from table-edges and door-frames? Unsympathetic tax-collectors who beat us with their briefcases? It’s going to take all that and more to get me out of here. I went for a walk in the woods today (or rather, I lurched toward Colony Hall, on the desperate slightly-rabid quest for morning coffee.) As nocturnal as I normally am, there’s something to be said for sunlight. Also, trees.


Snow! More snow! Trees! A fireplace! I wake up in the mornings and everything is saturated with white white light from the big windows over the bed, outside which the snow is falling. I get up and write. A picnic basket appears at my door sometime between 12 and 1, half the time I don’t even hear them drop it off. I eat & write, plunging endlessly toward the end of a play that seems to want to never end. At night, I take a hot bath in the clawfoot bath-tub, and I read Ted Hughes’ letters. I am desperately resisting the urge to paint the clawfoot toe-nails a vivid electric orange, with the nail-paint I bargained savagely for in a Yinchuan night market. So far I have managed to resist. It’s kind of incredible to not have easy internet access, or great cell reception. I don’t miss the world that much. I do miss Jet The Dog.