July 21, 2012

The cleaning girls smashed the green lamp in the hall, assuring me that every fragment had been swept up. Every fragment hadn’t, and last night there was something of a theater of blood as a sliver slit open my heel. I’m still finding drops and gobbets of gore by the pale morning light.

Woke to turbulent dreams of trying to get to two gets of rehearsals at once. The actor Ben Stiller was the director of one of them, a sort of ballet based on some Victorian novel, and I was trying to please him. He had been ill and was very delicate.

Finished Night Music. What a curious history this play has had, having been almost fully contained in another play with, I thought, a completely different subject. It’s testament to my theory that forcing a work into saying what you mean it to say is always a mistake. This is what I meant when I was straining to say what I thought I meant..

Good painting at the studio. Amy bought Inside the Blizzard.