December 17, 2009

Sitting in my tux, waiting to go sing the Cantaria Christmas concert. The evening has been kidnaped by people with deep belief in funny hats and costumes, and I wearily hang them by the door so I don’t, by will or accident, forget. I’ll be reading a new Christmas poem, which will no doubt seem to some as the Grinch dolls and purple Christmas trees do to me. It is possible that we are not practiced enough this time to let the music stand by itself. Two hours from now, we’ll know.

Phone call from Marco, after I suppose at least a year. Joyful. He says we’ll meet, but whether we will or not, it was good hearing the sound of his voice. His brief account of the past year was mostly disaster. He has the worst luck--

Met with Marty for the last time yesterday. Off to Rochester in the dead of winter to re-enter a life he left behind. Why, I don’t know, but I wish him well. It was a brief, rewarding friendship.

Strange day. I was the kind of sick where nothing really hurts, but you can barely rise up out of bed. I slept much of it away, bit worked the rest of the time on a frozen play which had suddenly thawed.