Yesterday I did start to feel the creative juices rising . . . not in a particularly pleasant way; in fact, in a downright ugly way; but juices are juices and we work with what we have; and so I copied out a small strange Grimms' fairy tale, and I took some notes about my own reprehensible feelings, and as I did these things I could feel a chemical reaction begin to sizzle, a first shift toward an unknown, unwritten, un-imagined draft.

Today, in my new room, I hope to scratch out the faint lines of whatever this mysterious piece of writing will be. I do have to edit first, but the chemicals can bubble along on their own for a few hours, until I finish working.

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Here are some zinnias. They are jumbled into a stone vase on the mantlepiece, next to an old clock that doesn't run.

And here are some grasses and a gladiolus, in a pewter cup. They are staring through the living-room window, watching the little street.

And these are greens in a salad bowl: baby kale, baby arugula, nasturtium leaves, carrot fronds, wild purslane, marigold petals, and among them a few golden cherry tomatoes.