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(alone in the house in Flannagans Hill)
I have only been here one day,
and already I feel restless.
The time, the lack of entertainment
should force me to start my book.
But I don't feel at home here.
"Convert the spare bedroom into an office,"
Dorothy said.
How to begin in a place that feels like
her house.
And writing the book --
the way I envision it --
will take talking to people.
I want to interview the artists
of my generation and older.
I'd like to walk the city streets
those artists walk;
look out my window at the city.
I wish I hadn't sold my house.
Dorothy told me not to,
but I thought it would be nice
if we had one place that we built together.
And it is. It's just that...
I didn't realize how much I would miss the city.
I don't know whether or not to interupt
Dorothy, to ask her if she'd like
to have lunch with me.
I've worked with artists all my life.
I know what they are like.
But all my life I've wanted a real
relationship. A home, a wife.
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Damn. Now I can't concentrate. Shouldn't have told Sid I didn't want to have lunch with him. But I didn't. Only now I do. Wrong green. Needs a little more yellow. How many painters have painted grass? Such an elemental brushstroke. up and down. up and down. But not something I've done often in the past. I didn't paint landscapes. But the last two works... And now this one. These hills will look so beautiful. The contrast in the other panel. I want people to see that contrast. What was there before the development. What was lost. Ahh. That is exactly the right shade of green. .
What could we have for lunch? Need to go to the
store. Sid used to eat lunch out almost every day
when he lived in the city. When I'm working
I usually just open a can. Eat whatever is in there.
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