February 16, 2014

Unusual pastel morning, a night snow peppered on objects as in a sentimental painting. Woke with a touch of hangover. Auditioned for Man and Superman at the Masonic Lodge, wondering at what the cost of heating that cavern must be. I don’t like the play (was bored into a stupor by it at Irish Rep in New York), don’t much like Shaw, but it was something to get me out of the snowbound driveway. Had lunch and delicious wine at Strada’s afterwards, where there was a family with two tiny boys, one of whom had to be turned on his belly in the air by dad–who thought he was choking, but I saw no such thing–and pounded on the back until he threw up. The baby didn’t seem upset at all.

Cantaria’s Valentine spaghetti supper came off successfully last night. Don’t know how much money was made, but the room was full and most of the silent auction items sold. The flower arrangements were like Russian Easter eggs, voluptuous and rich. I had a better time than I expected to, but, still, I hate it, every year, and I hate it in part because it aims so low, with the yes-it’s-crappy-but-isn’t-excellence-bourgeois mentality of the drag show. Glad my long-beloved art works sold and I can begin over without them here.

Thinking how many times I will balance a mug of tea up those uncertain steps . . .