November 26, 2010

Now that I don’t have a Thanksgiving dinner to worry about, I can’t get J’s phone call back to its proper place at the back of my mind. I fear for The Loves of Mr. Lincoln. London is not right for it. It’s like having a dog show in Kabul. What on earth are people meant to think? Tomorrow or the next day are not right. The wave is cresting and another will not come. I did make mistakes. I sold the option for far too little for it to make any difference to them whether they acted on it or not. Relative to my long-standing resolution not to be a pain in the ass, it took me a year to inquire, let alone nag or insist. The rotten spot of that resolution is that it leads people to ignore you in favor of people who do nag and inquire, until it has taken too long and you emerge from a cloud of frustration as a shrieking harpy. It confuses everyone, who probably thought you didn’t care. The part that really must be hilarious to the lords of destiny is that B sweet-talked Me into investing in THEIR show. I can’t rage against that with perfect indignation because Pink Carpet was amusing and heartfelt. I don't like the feeling of powerlessness. I could hand them the Best Play Ever Written, and they might even agree that it was, but all they’d have to do is shrug and say, “the time’s not right” and I am annihilated.

Melancholy, poetical e-mails from Stee. I usually don’t know what to say. Sometimes when he says he loves me, THAT seems to be the source of the melancholy.