First, here is a detail of the brass with inlaid bugs and jewels switchplate in jeff's office (the paint needs to be cleaned off the top a bit, but this is a very cool switch plate. His office is this mustard color which isn't showing up. Above is the alcove under the skylight with a cool black ladder and Miles Davis poster.
I'm just coming out of bronchitus and I've been doing nothing but working on my novel and juggling some new novel ideas and rewriting a script. Last night I couldn't sleep at at four in the morning I began thinking of quantum physics and different universes and how there really is no time and made myself panicked. And--In the midst of this flurry of activity and this creative and hallucinatory work, Max has composed the music and lyrics for a song, and we painted the inside of our 1865 rowhouse. So, of course, the final creative yearning for me is.....for a baby.
I know, I know.
I can't have any more kids because I'm too old now and anyway my first pregnancy jumpstarted a deadly one in a million blood disorder (see my novel Coming Back to Me and numerous articles--and it's all resolved and won't ever come back unless I need a million transfusions all at once) and we tried to adopt a few years ago (See my novel Girls in Trouble) so I think my best shot is for someone to deposit a baby on our doorstep. I know we can't possibly afford this, I know it's not a great idea, and I know if we had a baby here I'd be way too exhausted. I still remember 5 AM feedings, night terrors, and having mashed banana on everything I own, including in my mop of hair. But, but, but, there is something intoxicating about the idea.
But wait, there's more! I also want to cook all day today, and knit and rearrange everything in my office. One bit of creative spark is starting a fire. Does this happen to others?
I think I'm going to go to the bookstore with Max and give and get extra kid-sized hugs from him. And a brownie.