Omaha 8

May 29, 2015

Early on the day of my reading. The Mainstage readings so far have been flawed but excellent. I hope that much for mine, but fear that all of a sudden it will be revealed as a piece of claptrap that will leave people wondering, “how the hell did THIS get chosen?” Unlike most of the work this week, mine has no knotty philosophical problems, no intellectual intricacy. Will it seem unique in simplicity, or just dumb? The first of the Mainstage plays was The Wolves, a sensational piece about a girls’ soccer team. So far we are the vanguard of simplemindedness. I’ve seen my four responders in action twice now: two of the women are wise, perceptive, helpful; the other two are, in this context anyhow, useless. One goes on an on about the play that she has written in her head that was somehow suggested by the one we just saw; the other cannot form an English sentence. It’s the good ones I fear. What if they see through to the soul of my unworthiness? What if I can’t control myself and slap one of the bad ones across the face?

K was dissatisfied with dinner last night, and so organized a trip to Sullivan’s steakhouse downtown. I was so happy to see a chunk of Omaha that I all but peed myself with eagerness. I, however, had been satisfied with dinner, so while they were having famous Omaha steaks, I was having a salad, which I nevertheless threw up in a dark corner of a parking lot in Omaha’s block of charming bistros. Add Omaha to that list. After some taxi drama, home to much talk in our living room about the theater, L and K and I, L promising to get K’s scripts (his show has already been read) to all his contacts in LA, something that no one has ever once done for me. Try to put that aside. Try to think it will be my turn tonight, after my genius is revealed, which is the alternative possible outcome of the reading this afternoon.
Bought a lump of magnifying crystal in a variety store in Omaha. Don’t know why.