I've boarded the flight. It will be partly cloudy in New York, as usual. I am in the habit of taking note of when I'm about to physically or metaphorically fly into tumult. Give me only positive thoughts of little Jasmine when the layers of control and safety become friable, as they are surely about to.
In the airport, I saw an advertisement for a lifestyle in Bath, NC. Houses for sale. "Live in BATH!"
What a romantic idea--living in Bath.
Have me bathed in the Atlantic, in the Pamlico, in my childhood, in my real self, in my thinking and too-aware inner child, in my untouched inner self, the one that cannot be bathed. Scrub her, educate her, tame her hair but it's always the same. Huck Finn in Bath, new and modernized Bath, is still Huck Finn.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
In this pile: Motherless Brooklyn, The Bell Jar, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, The Theater and it's Double, Julius Caesar, Tolstoy: Confessions, Truck: A Love Story. Also: Assorted correspondence, four personal journals, rough drafts of some non-fiction and poetry, a rough draft for the new Rosebuds bio. This is what I did all day.