Diary

I haven't written here for a while.
Mainly because my private life has become profoundly private and no lobger simply mine to write about any more.
Which is a good thing.
And because my public life, my writing life, has been almost totally taken over by the effort of re-writing "The Tree of Life".
And there is something about this process which not only defies analysis, but which is actually damaged by the attempt to analyze.
The play ia slowly falling into place in its essentially mysterious way; and taking a form that has utterly surprised me.
Whether it will actually work it is still far too early to say.
Meanwhile I am spending quite a bit of time in Newport, in a house by the river Tay.
There is something totally hypnotic about the endless procession of this vast mass of water, backwards and forwards each day: in unimaginable volumes and with unimaginable force and power.
I worked on the play this morning, we had lunch, and then a rest, and then I walked by the river.
Along the shore line in the wind, under the scudding clouds, with the water rattling against the rocks, until I came to the Tay Bridge.
You can walk under the huge structure, and then along to the edge of woodland.
I felt such contentment, such a peace; and all of a sudden surprised myself by the thought that life could be always like this.
That the daemon that has driven me so unremmitingly the last thirty years or so could perhaps even now be finally at rest.
And i glimpsed a real possibility of happiness.

Labels: maybe even happiness