Hello Bill,

      First, the monotonous theme without variations—I miss you, miss you.

      Next, I’ve just disposed of my lunch, at eight forty-five a.m., and look forward to a long day’s work with perceptions sharpened by increasing hunger, or that is how it should happen, except that some time during the day I’ll probably fall asleep on the cane chaise longue, blanketed and sheeted and pillowed, in the corner of this vast light studio. Oh, I am so privileged—I have a wall thermostat to adjust room heat; I have five tables and one small long low table, chairs, book cases, an adjustable easel of the kind that Hyde Solomon told me he introduced to Yaddo (he has been a kind of adviser for many years on art, artists and equipment) and another easel like the one you had in your studio at MacDowell where you could pin sheets of paper to work on; numerous lights from all angles; a washbasin and john/can or whatever you call it, with, so far, no mice working lace patterns on the toilet paper.

      You could be here painting.

      Over in West House I have a nice bedroom and bathroom with my window looking out on the woods a few feet away and the deep deep snow—I walk through snowbanks five feet high to get to my studio fifteen yards from the house. The snow squeaks like icing sugar when you walk on it, and it is full of sparkles.

      There are six guests here, none of whom I’ve met before: a raving old man who arrived yesterday and spoke in a loud voice throughout dinner (served at one table where the Secretary and the Director and his wife also dine); a smooth dark plump man who described his son’s third birthday and decided the human race will not become extinct (a Basil the Gloom topic hung around the dinner-table), a woman, maybe in her forties, personable, intelligent, dull; another woman, a Sylvia, rather like an alternative version of Sylvie—as if there’d been many cast and put out at stations and colonies through the world—she seems more thoughtful and less jovial than the other guest; and a young painter (black) whose first one-man show has just opened in New York. And J.F. Oh for the babies of MacDowell!

      Meanwhile, back in New York . . . I enjoyed being at Elnora’s place though her constant hibernation is rather alarming and she seems to have got herself a massive escape through sleep and tranquillisers and sleeping pills. I’m quite a keen sleeper myself so I enjoyed the rest, especially after my rather nasty Baltimore life, but I couldn’t help worrying about Elnora’s condition. I’m hoping she’ll be able to get the last fifty pages of her very moving book finished. I think it’s good, and real, and it’s clearly been harrowing to write. Her daughter, by the way, in answer to my question about what replaces ‘groovy’ has said, ‘out-a-site’ is the word. So now you and Paul can be with it, groovy, turned on and in by labelling everything ‘out-a-site’ . . .

      Jo called on my last night at New York and Elnora and I were delighted. Jo said she had been trying to get to Yaddo for March but there’s no probable vacancy until May. She would make the place live a lot. I felt pretty depressed to think, suddenly, that as soon ahead as then, and before, I’ll be ‘out of this world’; it’s a grim thought.

      Meanwhile, back in Yaddo, I’ve robbed the poetry shelves and set myself up very comfortably here and I’ll be able to enjoy the music on the pornograph and read through Art News that goes back to the early nineteen fifties, and other journals. I’ve put Ned’s photo near, and the little cream-man from South America also stands near—maybe I’m out-a-site but who cares—if you send me your photo I won’t display it of course but it would be nice to have . . . rush across and drop it in the Santa Barbara P.O. . . . I have washed, and walked in the sparsely-falling snowflakes. Don’t mind my writing letters to you! My thoughts are more often than not in Hermosillo Drive.

      The kind of snow falling today is that where the snowflakes are so isolated they don’t know what to do except twirl round and round and melt before they land on the pavement, the wind blowing them in a distracted way. I love the grey in the sky.

      Goodbye now.

       Love J

      The photos Basil sent are proofs only and I must write to the photographer for any I want. They’re not very good but there will be one or two fair ones. I look forward to your photos, I’m sure they’re a good bargain. I’ll look around for a cut-out body in exchange.

      16. Yaddo January 8 —— 518-584-0746 (just in case)*