May 29, 2014

Perfect summer day, warm, hazy, difficult to move in, only a little less than perfect with regards to my level of achievement.

Have not touched alcohol in the last four days, wondering if the use had become more habitual than delightful, and I notice that the pleasant wind-down at the end of an evening is achieved just as well by tea or lemonade, and unless I make an issue out of it in my own thoughts, I don’t notice what I’m drinking, so long as I’m hydrating for the long night of dreams. I also notice that alcohol makes for stronger edges to sleep, abruptly falling into a nap, abruptly waking. I fall asleep just as easy tee-totaling, but the waking is a longer process, and the midday snoozes a little longer themselves. Perhaps I’d thought to make myself more interesting by struggling against overdoing the alcohol, but, alas, there is no struggle. I’ll save it for evenings getting acquainted in Vienna.

The thesis of my Yeats/Wilde play is turning out to be the question of what is martyrdom and what self-delight.

Watering my badly transplanted rose four times a day, willing it to survive.