November 11, 2007

Evening, after a long ride from Waynesville, red tail light against red tail light in the endless construction zone of route 40. We closed Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf tonight, and though I expected my reaction to be unmitigated joy, I am sad. I don’t know exactly what I’m sad about. I don’t miss the play. I miss the players– Belve and Trinity and Mickey were excellent company. Mickey is one of few actors who can keep up with me, my momentary shifts and innovations-- yes, and mistakes-- which drive most others mad. I think we were a good team. I think we showed Waynesville something. Suzanne is witty and bawdy and sexy. Art is big and affectionate and sincere. Little Adam laughs bent over at the waist, loud and free, the way I do. I miss them all.

Saw Ellen in the café yesterday. We chitchatted. She has been filming here and there for months at a time. I told myself that explained the silence. The casualness of our reunion was a blessing. The casualness of our reunion was a disappointment.

Clambering up my back and across my shoulders are Circe and Maud, my new kittens, thanks to Mickey’s mom. I laughed at them until I fell asleep last night, their racing across the floors of their new domain, standing on their hind legs boxing the air, tussling and wresting in every corner, climbing upon me to sleep the violent sleep of the young. I had forgotten Dinosaur Matinee. Titus is mature and Jocasta is old and Theseus and Conrad are gone. But Circe and Maude rumble and tumble, and I smile every time they do. Circe has a magic streak down her forehead and a passionate disposition; Maud is pale and beautiful, and if there were a Yeats cat, she would be his Maud. I needed something to take my mind from the sadness I don’t completely understand, and they are it.