11.1.65
The thing to wonder at is the difference an hour - even five minutes - can make. This morning I ran the emotional gamut from cold fury to indecision to devil-may-care decision. And won. Regarding D. I put myself in a mood of helpless anger by uncontrollably cutting him dead - it was an endurance test to sit over my sketch book working on the study for a still life, an array of containers inspired by morandi. In that mood I stalked out to lunch, quaffed a beer, and headed for a showdown. Fortune was with me, and I found the boy sitting far back at a table in a bistro type bar. Each was tense, and we both smoked continuously, while eating. But the atmosphere gradually cleared, and strain disintegrated into our original camaraderie I felt so certain wasn’t mistaken about really being there (the seeming denial of it was what put me in such a ferocious humor). Soon we were chatting as usual, in general about art (for D. with a capital “A”) and just chatting. Until at the end of lunch I asked if I had served my term… “what term?”… “my term in exile”… “Scott you weren’t in exile”… “good boy, go paint well with Mr. Pitman this afternoon”. Quickly, as in a handshake, the purpose of a handshake was accomplished. Good boy…
Walking form the Academy to Spruce Street my mood was like a reflection of the shining day- a racing wind guiding great silver and plum colored clouds, like the storm clouds of a summer day, out of the path of the triumphant sun. And so the mood remains.
