I took detailed field notes about the events of yesterday, and I hope to find space this week to sit down and begin to untangle my experiences. I can't do that for you this morning as I'm getting ready for work and also trying to recover from a couple of nights of poor sleep. But the entire day was intense--first as a massive human influx . . . rural roads jammed with cars, town streets overrun with excited people, the air filled with anticipation--and then the eclipse itself, which, as the moon advanced over the sun, began to alter the human tone into a strange and poignant lonesomeness . . . and then totality, which was such a massive physical shock, like coming face to face with the gods. Both Tom and I spoke afterward of our reactions-- for him uneasy, like he'd just had an upsetting confrontation; for me, like being drawn into some terrifying ceremony. The moment was beautiful, like nothing else I'd ever seen, but it was also deeply unsettling.

And then, as the moon shifted, that brocaded world returned to simple strangeness, and then, soon, to its everyday self.

As we ate dinner last night--a gorgeous prix fixe meal featuring lamb and scallops and a pineapple sorbet palate cleanser and delicate pea soup and an egg and strawberry salad and a coconut creme brulee I had to bring home to eat later--T and I began to bat around the idea of making a common project of our eclipse experience. I wrote all day, he photographed all day, and we were both wound up by the situation. We don't generally attempt artistic collaborations with one another; we're very different in our work. But here something drew us into a parallel stream. Time will tell if we make anything of it.