September 4, 2015

 Dvorak on Pandora.  Grayish-yellowish sky. Days of great emotional volatility.
   
I get to rehearsal early to open the door, giving me time to read old notebooks and journals. It is all so lyrical, so Romantic. There’s a clear streak of religious fervor that splashes sometimes over into fanaticism. Mostly there is creating, creating, creating works that never see the light. It is most extraordinarily futile and sad. You’d think I’d be able–or be allowed-- to get on to another phase. Picked up the diary where, at the very end, Brad looks at me in Fort Lauderdale and says, “I know you love me and all, but, really, you kind of disgust me.” The words linger in the air like carved stone thirty seven years later.
   
Two girls–sisters I suppose–on their way to school got into a fight. I couldn’t see what they were doing to one another, but I heard one scream “That really hurts!” and then saw her, crying, turn away from the bus stop and head for home. What I witnessed was mischief and cruelty, if on a tiny scale. How do we learn that? Even on a tiny scale?