February 24, 2013

Beethoven’s violin concerto in the dark of the morning, played by one of the apparatuses connected to my computer.

Dreamed I was in a hotel in Berlin, trying to submit poems to a magazine run by Jn Bon Jovi’s mother.

The water was off when I first rose. It was on again when I rose the second time, resolved to go down to the street and find the leak which must, of necessity, be coming from my pipes.  Strange things move in the night, unbeknown by us.

Rehearsals coming together. I receive no notes, so either I’m doing well enough or they figure I’m past help.

No writing. No painting. I cannot “fit those things in.” I must have a very broad moment, and that has been scarce since the New Year.

A car is stopped in the street, headlights on.  The only thing he can be watching from there is me. He moved when I moved. I saw it passing; it was a large pick-up.

Beethoven is wrong for this morning, being lush and sensual while the first of this day is spare and barren.

I don’t really expect to see Lincoln on stage. The process has been too protracted and grueling for it to come to anything whole.