February 5, 2014

Feeling oddly cleansed by a session of standing on my rainswept porch in the utter dark bellowing at God.

Feeling homeless, though in fact I have two homes. Shuttling between them is like a rat scuttling between bolt-holes, one over, one not yet, what I need in one lying inevitably in the other.

The director whom I did not respect did not cast me in the production for which I foresaw mediocrity. . . and somehow I am upset about it. . . .

Guest bed arrives today from Haverty’s. I could sleep in my new house if I wanted to. Hesitate to call the movers– why? When to move the cats? When to return the pile-up of phone calls? How long to charge madly forward on all fronts? A tactical retreat would have prevented numberless defeats, but I never learned how.