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Dearest, I am having a hard time today. Got up on the wrong side of the couch this morning, I guess. Spent the morning trying to think of something clever or charming to write, while also downloading and watching in bits, a lecture, via Sentence First, by Catherine Kenneally on the "Mysterious Origins of Language." The video just crashed, 17 minutes into the hour so I won't know the answer for some days. I also checked out an online slide show of 18th and 19th century European erotic art, entitled Women of Pleasure. Very interesting. I recommend it to, among others, The History Detectives as a delightful corrective against false prurience. I hit on the exhibit in the course of investigating the source (via googling) of the lovely silver gelatin print of the reclining damsel that I posted yesterday. I really like such images. What a beauty. She's so immediate, vivid, fresh, and yet without a doubt - the image is from the 1920s - she is now a fantôme. (What is your name, darling? You were lovely, and I hope you were loved.) Where can I find more such images? Though it's best to savor them one by one.

The day started out okay. Journal notes:

Good morning darling. I'm up and running, showered, dressed, breakfasted. My hair has gotten long enough that I can put it up, which is nice, though some strands fall out but that's okay it softens the look. Listening to music, moving my hand across the page, the dishwasher's going. I have the house to myself for the moment. Lyle Lovett sang "In My Own Mind" earlier. I do live in my own mind, but am perhaps not quite as self-sufficient as that. What to write, sometimes? Not enough ping-pong. When's the last time I had a conversation with anyone? This morning, I suppose, about a vase he gave to me as a present over 20 years ago and that he saw fit to shatter in a pique because it didn't have the same meaning to him anymore. It wasn't his to break. This morning, in a gesture of straightening, I tried to pick up the Pottery Barn flowers that still lay on the floor long after the crockery had been picked up. The bent stems got entangled in stereo wires. So I asked him to pick them up. What should I do with them?, he asked. Throw them out of course.

Every Day I Write the Book--Elvis Costello.

Well, you know, sometimes it's going to be a dyspeptic chapter.

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Kisses, darling.