November 14, 2013

Woke late, with incipient turquoise in the sky. Woke from a dream of writing poems (in tight quatrains) to protest a so-so production of one of my plays. I think it was probably to Bailiwick in Chicago, the only really awful and wilful production I’ve had, and from which I’m still awaiting a penny of my contractual 6% of the door. Never hounded them for it (should I have had to?) because I didn’t want to speak to them. I would have cashed their check. Somehow, such organization survive. I don’t even wish them ill.

Nanny installed in my computer demands a new password. I run out of things I have any desire to remember.

Reading with Janet this afternoon. My desire to be a kind of producer is not yet extinguished. Apparently.

Urthona brings out Ann’s book. She has done all the work.

Fascinating to me to gaze into my watergardens through their roofs of ice.