November 2, 2011

Male notte. Molto male notte. Brutta. Cattiva.

Piango.

Finished with Lupe’s discernment process. Finished correcting the Holy Spirit.

Apparently will not be playing Lear. Apparently misunderstood. I am trying to say, “Well, it frees up my spring” in a way convincing to myself.

Casey tells the story of a couple stomping out of Brief Encounters at MF, attacking the bartender (who, at any rate, was not at fault) because the plays were so bad. During the attack they apparently paraphrased the dialogue of my play about bad plays– which, of course, they had not seen yet. Life & Art–

Casey assures me that the evening is not bad at all. See for myself Thursday.

Apparently fried bacon last night in a drunken stupor. The smell was in the kitchen. The utensils were out but, wonderfully, cleaned. A greasy plate lay on the floor beside the couch. Hope I enjoyed it. Glad I didn’t burn myself. Maybe it was not I who fried the bacon at all.

Apparently the dark outside, speaking now with the voice of the across-the-street apartments’ trash truck, is another day.