August 28, 2011

Dull yellowish morning, flat in comparison to the tempestuous morning which greets the hurricane-ravaged east coast.

Vance dispiriting last night. I don’t know why. Kitty and Lorena attended from the department. I thought there was supposed to be a whole company who drank at a pub and then came to the play as an evening outing, but that did not materialize. Maybe they decided to stay at the pub.

Dull morning became the most radiant and stainless day. Worked in the garden, warring on the vines and their tremendous roots, levering stones out of the dirt where they have lain buried since I don’t know when. Shoulder aching now, and a shirt so dirty it needs to be matted and framed as proof of my labors for a later time

Couldn’t face either church or the last matinee of Vance today. Instead, wrote and gardened. And napped. Have been sleeping excessively not because I have been tired but because I needed to escape consciousness, or so I think.

John Crutchfield will be directing The Future of the Theater