New York Sunday

June 9, 2013

Pale Sunday sky. SS was at last night’s performance, which had not the sharp sheen of opening night, but which was good enough. It was excellent to have a home face, and a critical eye unlike enough my own to be really useful– though it turns out our critical perspectives are not that different. Chit-chat in the Houndstooth afterwards. The waitress knew what I was going to order, and asked after the play. I was on the verge of feeling at home here. For the first time in all these lightning visits, I will miss New York. If I were just going home there would be great gloom, but as London’s next, there is some hope of further adventure.

I have had a triumph. My mind–or heart–does not yet know of what kind– a bright light popping in the dark and then gone? . . the first fire of a constellation? Who knows? I wish the people I know in New York had come to see the play. If things were reversed I would have been there opening night with red flags in my hand. But. . . what is, is. Maybe they will come later.  There is no better play in New York these several nights. Whatever comfort that is, I take.

Ten hours to spend until my flight, six until mandatory check-out. Let’s see how I can draw out the tasks.