Bedtime: Actually, not even that
afraid. Did toss and turn, though. Missing my husband's body, the
swoosh-swoosh of his bi-pap machine. The silence here is deafening.
No interstate sounds, no screaming sirens, no tappy-tappy of Bella's
toenails on the hardwood.
I lay there, thinking, I've made a
mistake. How will I ever stay here three weeks? I wonder, How long
can a 47-year-old woman go without adequate sleep? My mind starts to
spin scenarios, all of them scary: what about ticks? Lyme disease?
That something-or-other my driver Carl warned me of, something to do
with mosquitos? How 'bout spiders, large, hairy spiders? Are there
any rapists here in the woods? Isn't that a main road right outside
the long drive to my studio? What about bears? WHAT ABOUT BEARS?
Fuck.
Day 2: Thursday, Sept. 27, 2012 (written Friday morning, 9/28)
I slept like shit last night. Kept waking, worried that I was being
slowly poisoned by that damn oil lamp emergency switch that I
probably turned on accidentally coming in the door. Worried about
spiders crawling into my ears and laying their cottony webs. Worried
about intruders. Should I have left the porch light on? I did leave
the lamp by my desk on in the studio. Still afraid of the dark. Now
how pathetic is that? To be this old and scared of
darkness. I need to ask for a nightlight.
Made it for hot breakfast: two eggs, two
slices bacon, one slice toast. Coffee. And then some more coffee. Sat
between a poet who read last evening and Ginnah, the older woman who
likes literary fiction. She told me last night that the thought
didn't occur to her to write until she was in her late forties. I told
her I was a writer from the age of four, and feeling all pissy in the
second grade that Beverly Cleary was publishing and I was not.
Thinking, now, how annoyed my sister would
be with the people here. She's right: a lot of liberals. Like, everyone who is here, a liberal. Everyone here an Obama fan. I feel so at HOME at the dinner table, at the breakfast table, so happy it's an election year, and we're approaching that Most Important Date. Even though I am the ONLY one from the Midwest, every single resident is friendly and accommodating: Sit here! Tell me about your work! The other artists are from either New York (mostly Brooklyn), or LA. It thrills me to meet each of them.
Oh my goodness. I am chilly now here in
the studio and freaking loving it. What? For twenty-four days I get to
live in an environment whose temperature is my choosing. Not gonna turn on the heat. Sixty degrees, from here on out.
Doesn't get any better than this.
Around12:30, I got hungry, remembered
there was a basket lunch coming, and went outside to claim it. Beer bratwurst “hoagie” with sauerkraut and apples; some
delicious root soup (pumpkin? squash? Turned out to be carrot. Oh.);
aromatic and spiced … was that saffron? Cut up vegetables: carrots,
celery, radishes, and a few home-grown string beans. A plastic cup
with spicy brown mustard. Heavenly eating. So this is how the other
half of the world eats. No bologna with the red string here.
Back from the trip to town. Blake
drove. Blake, the colony's driver, he who brings the baskets, and
takes artists into Peterborough. In town, I first went to the post
office to mail three post cards: one for HAS, for Elizabeth, for
Estee. Didn't have Rye-Guy's address in my phone. Why the hell not? I
can't figure out that omission. Then, two more stores, where I bought
the following: a six pack of Rolling Rock, a bag of theater-style popcorn (buttery!), two mini
Snickers bars, and a tooth brush. I'd forgotten to pack a toothbrush.
Who does that? Someone who had packed early and forgot to include
that necessary product, such was my anxiety to get to the airport on
time Wednesday morning.
On the candy:
“Would you like these bagged, or with
you?” the clerk at Roy's asked.
“Do I look that desperate?” I
replied.
He laughed. “That's something I would
say.”
The liquor store in town didn't sell
beer. Weird, right?
On to Roy's for the beer and the
popcorn.
Afterward, Blake took me for a short
drive around the colony. I am so thankful that Mixter Studio is near
Colony Hall, as many studios are definitely off the beaten track. Not
only is Mixter close, but the studio is generally used for
photographers. I have heavy black-out shades that cocoon me; I don't
feel exposed at night. Blake took me to the old barn, where we
went looking for a podium. I like writing, standing up. This podium,
which is the correct height for my frame, will be coming soon.
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