What I Meant To Say

Sometimes I think I am a Don DeLillo novel, not just inside of one.

For the past two days I have redone two closets in order to make better use of space and better accommodation for clothes and storage. This is also an attempt at the stripping of fat in my apartment. For some reason this triggers something in me—something nameless and untraceable. I ask myself what this means and myself does not answer.

The Writer does
“It’s about dress, silly. Clothing talks about the masks we wear, the persona we put on for the day. If you want to change who you are you’ll have to dress differently. And sometimes you get ahead of yourself, as in buying the future of you before you’re ready to put it on. Hence the new clothes that sit in there, waiting to be worn. Waiting for you.”

Last night I was up until four o’clock in the morning working on the new (as yet untitled) novel. It may be that those things I wrote in some fit of passion won’t be usable at all. Well, the words might be usable in some smoothed out form, but not in the novel. This particular novel anyway. I also started a sketch of the face on the cover of The Beautiful and damned. (I posted the cover of the book with some words a few days back.) How I envy those who can sit down and just sketch whatever they see. And I love notebooks filled with lovely words and comments and observations with sketches interspersed along with a variety of colors. Vintage Books & Anchor Books
In moving things between closets to sort or move or toss, of course I made some discoveries. For one, I found the Yoga mat and underquilt (for padding). It’s sitting here right now, just in front of me. Waiting. But first I have to look up Will Power. I’m not done with that quite yet.



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A photo. It catches the eye and then the attention. From the attention I decide to keep or to pass by. If kept I redesign, wander through the room(s), move this or that. Seeking my place in that universe. Things to admire: the desk in front of a window (who are those putting a desk in front of a wall?). The boxes with doors within the shelves. The window within the shelves. The ladder. The loft.

Meanwhile, I jot down thoughts and sketches on the notebook next to me and the computer on the desk that is in front of the window. The thoughts and sometimes the sketches are for the current novel or a future one, or nothing. Just because some thoughts require writing.

Meanwhile, I reconfigure the loft so that it is open on the end and extends a walkway in front of the books and to the ladder. This I do in my mind rather than on paper as I could spend the rest of my life doing architectural drawings. And that belongs to some past of mine.

So then, maybe then I have a photo to post.