October 9, 2009

All digging muscles throb. Peonies and ferns go into the ground as part of the healing of the great wounds left by the plumbers, who broke the basement door by kicking it open rather than turning the doorknob, who threaded hoses crooked and left light sockets mysteriously dead, who took the spade I brought from my father’s house. I will say nothing. Anything to have them away from here. DJ remarked on my lack of patience with the process– “lack of patience” being the gentle way of describing straight-ahead fury.

It seems to strike others as funny when I am actually hurt by things. Perhaps they think I choose the wrong things to be hurt by. In fact, I don’t choose at all.

Drove 90 minutes last night between here and Waynesville, and, though scheduled, never set foot on stage. Luckily for everybody, the plumbers had drawn off my fury and I had none left for the players. A was more remarkable still last night, making discoveries and daring illuminating business in the R & G and player king scenes. He is already the best Hamlet I have even seen on stage, or at least the young and antic equal to C’s contemplative maturity. He’s funny. He’s transparent. Not always the smartest, he’s the most perceptive person on stage. The tiny stature of his body he makes into an asset, a terrier, a bare wire, a hyperactive atomie energizing every tableau. T’s Ophelia can match him. She’s a sadly intelligent Ophelia, regretful rather than confused, and their scenes together, at least, will be sensational.