MacDowell

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.

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