26th anniversary. It was the whole time in a day. We disposed of a dead mouse, accessing the inner Woody Allen movie and confronting the terrors that have been the sous-conversation of the marriage. Who takes care of whom and what? Considerable heat – a little agony, a little ecstasy, followed by a long walk in the redwoods, a frittata, a competitive Times crossword, a promise to trade two 300-page manuscripts this Thursday and Friday, the constant conversation/negotiation/anxiety that apparently comforts us. We are maniacs now, too extreme for anyone but each other. We end the evening with a playlist: J.U.F. meets Amy Winehouse, Mabel Mercer meets Leonard Cohen, Siouxsie and the Banshees meet Mahalia. Amid the chaos of this extended effort and the sudden silence of the music, we retreat to our separate corners, momentarily at peace.
Note to self: “Are you in your stall, brother?” Virginia supposedly said to Leonard – a courtesy between writers/intimates who work a room away from each other – before unleashing the full force.