February 27, 2015

Finished In the Paramount Hotel.

Perpetual dull headache from the sinus clog, which itself is perpetual.

Almost immovable with lethargy.


My golden crocus unfolds, heedless of a week of bad weather.

Videos on the Internet of The Islamic State destroying the sacred heritage of Mesopotamia. Wired the way I am, this of all such images strikes at my gut, makes me howl with rage and despair. We set our own nest ablaze, but there is no proof we are the phoenix.

AABB gives a pile of money to a lesbian theater collective. Their work was not good, but one of our members fights so hard to make sure only women will get money from us, on the ground– to which she clings no matter how many time it is refuted by actual data on the page– that women have been given a raw deal in the theater. I open my Dramatists Guild Directory to FORTY FOUR all female or female-first theaters or production opportunities. And not one which so much as uses the word “male” or “men.” It no longer embarrasses us to be politically passionate about the aggrandizing of our own selves, about anointing our own prejudices as sacred.

Leonard Nimoy is dead.

Cold bright day. It deserved better than I gave it.