"At the beginning, I think of endings."
Okay, great, this baby should write itself now. Right? Right?
Am in bed with my third cup of Silver Needle white tea, rain pouring on the roof, I am going to sit here in bed and MAKE myself reread Elaine Showalter's "The Female Malady: Women, Madness, English Culture, 1830-1980" (a must-read if you're interested in who makes and writes the girl-crazy), have just woken up at 7:30am, researched books about English bowling for my sister, made gluten-free vegan zucchini muffins that will almost certainly be bad but I find the process of baking soothing even if I don't follow the directions (no ginger, so ginger candy on top). Tonight going to see the Nederlans Dans Theater (here is
them wonderfully performing Gertrude Stein's "Shutter Shut.") I think I've watched that clip like 10 times. I would embed it here but I am a)lazy or b)a bit of a dummy on such things. Either I don't know which one.
Perhaps this will happen. Soon. And I will meditate this morning on possession, the model of the writer as
one possessed.
