February 15, 2015

The radio say it’s 8 degrees outside. The sun is bright, and so there’s deception going on, but I can tell from the chill of my study, which the space heater cannot dissipate, that it is cold indeed.  I think the days that have passed without my writing have been good ones. I’ve swam at the RC– up to a full lap now without stopping, more than which I could not do even as a lad–and lying low in the steam room trying to melt this catarrh out of me. Gut sore from agonizing muscle cramps last night, brought on by God knows what. Rehearsals have been well. There is a sense of working together toward an end that I have not seen so much elsewhere. M’s memory and efficiency as an actor are remarkable.  Contributed to Fox and Beggar, because their director and the one thing they’ve done are so beautiful. Sidney re-facebooked a photo from The Loves of Mr Lincoln, and all the comments were “I saw it and loved it “ or “I wish I could see that.” May the latter portion have their wish. They all remark on the acting because their friends are the actors, and I would too, unless I were, as I am, the playwright. The unexpected perspectives one has—No Valentine’s calls. I hold this, too, against the universe.  Made beef stew. Revised. Watched a video on the Chauvet Cave. It is the holiest place on earth.