The apartment is squashed with ideas and the wife is killing me with terpenoid.
It's been one of those weeks where I feel like I, the amateur, forces her Sundays into a series of unnatural poses.
It's so difficult to avoid contrivance.
Not being governed by irony in uncreative moments is harder than Rilke led on.
I am comforted, always by these things:
Dear Walker,
On Sunday on the radio they are playing the tape of J. Balowin's appearance at they. I don't think the curious mass masochism of the audience will be audible but he will be and he is important and I remember one very magnificent thing he said about the sonnets of Shakespeare. I tried making potatoes like yours but they weren't.
-Diane
This means, somehow, that
Walker Evans and
Diane Arbus were normal people who tried and failed at potato recipes.
As always, I press on with integrity and refinement:
Best, Liz. Hope to see you soon!