October 29, 2012

Big opossum on the porch this morning, eating the mess the birds leave at the feeders. Moaning wind, roaring and cracking in the distance, the garage light continually on because it thinks the wind is a body passing. Not yet dawn, so if my garden is blasted or intact cannot yet be known. Harvested the last eggplants yesterday. The vine is covered with blossoms, as is a volunteer cherry tomato in the backyard. The pink terrace roses are blooming; this little inclemency won’t bother them.

JB phones from New York to say that the subways and airports and Stock Market are closed, but also that they want to do The Loves of Mr Lincoln as part of GayFest in May. Would that be all right with me? Of course it would. It’s not what I expected, exactly, but on what grounds I was to expect one thing rather than the other is difficult to tell. I haven’t figured out what my producers’ thinking is, or what timetable they’re working, and I can’t ask without a certain petulance coming into my voice–which comes from panic–so I resolve to keep silent and encourage what happens to happen. Any production is better than no production, and I can see great good coming out of it, and the worse coming out of it would be nothing, which is where we started, and no loss at all. So, New York in the spring. That is well. Lincoln is in the air right now.  At this moment, the big excitement is meeting the actors who will play the parts. I have always had excellent luck with actors. Almost always.

Prospect of getting the roof fixed after last night’s rains. Bitched my head off on the phone (in my gentle way) but the prospect of anyone on the roof in this storm– Frankenstorm they’re calling it–is even more distressing. But, this is going to be my season for letting happen what happens. No trying to steer the world’s course for a while.

Too much singing yesterday. Hoarse. Croaking at the cats like an old lady