May 31, 2013

Woke continuing out of sleep a sort of Beckett monolog– in the voice of David Thewlis–one thing linked to another with connections suggested but not explicit– but better than Beckett, of course, because Beckett was like one of those theaters making things worse because they cannot make them better. I never cover up my fear, my confusion. I dare, and dare, and things break around me. It was not like me at all, except that the materials of the monolog were things about me in the dark room, were events dragged in from other days, that were mine.

Wild with anxiety about Lincoln last night, for a few minutes last night. I have walked down every path. I have opened every door. That a man has no power, ultimately, over what happens to him is clearer to no one more than it is to me, Yet one tries. One opens the next door. One probes the night air for one more spirit to conjure, to plead to, to reason with.

I have not made the life I am living. People argue convincingly that one always makes the life one wants, and I smile, knowing how reasonable it is. But it is also wrong.

Brood over my lavender rose, watering, touching.

Had my afternoon at the ManSpa yesterday. It was luxury and sensation at the edges of my capacity.

So much to do, so few days to do it in before New York, London, which are in my head as I type.