April 24, 2010

“Blessed” I call the rain outside, falling as if it specifically designed to water a garden. I retired exhausted last evening, before I had the chance to hydrate my new plantings properly. This suffices all: the neon-lavender dwarf iris, the sticky uncurling fingers of the cobra lilies, the yellow rose that is going to bloom five-fold in this rain, all.

Towhee sings directly under my study window. Like us, he is singing in the shower.

Hamlet rehearsal better this morning. I was on book for a while, and we are paraphrasing maniacally. Some people will not know, but some will. The Player King is word perfect, and so is Gertrude, and I think I am, though I was not on book for myself. But the good part is that Adam ignited, and put out a performance which could have been a performance, and that fire is what is finally necessary, and it must come from him.

Back in touch with Lynda S after– what? Thirty years? She came to visit me in Baltimore– it had to be in 1973. She is the one who said, “You should try writing plays.” It made me angry at the time, for I was a poet. She is nearly the last instance when the thought of marrying a woman was not entirely abstract.