Workmen arrived before nine to work on the bathroom. I was still in bed. The night owl wrote poems and watched Macbeth until nearly two in the morning, and then danced with Cookie the cat. When I was small I used to look into the mirror at midnight. They said at the hour of witching you may see your life passes by.
Of course that was child play, and long ago I had lost interest knowing what lies ahead, unlike the hero in Shakespeare’s tragedy. I only wonder sometimes if I should get a full time job and work like a normal person—8 to 5, no-nonsense, justifying my existence. But I’m artist, one that requires lots of mental space and catching up. The moment before rising is often rich with thoughts. They are not to be ignored but to be mulled over between the sheets. The artist way has no clock. The artist job is to feel and I don’t apologize.
