November 10, 2015

Met my son in the dream before waking. Held him. He was six or seven. His little striped shirt. He looked nothing like me, but he felt like me. I knew him. He wouldn’t let go of me even when I thought he must be tired of embracing. When I woke I remembered that he had never been born. Sat on the edge of my bed howling until there was no more in me. Amazing the depth that grief can come from, a dark red place deeper than all depths. It is not alone there. Grief isn’t. What is with it I did not recognize. The well is empty for the moment. Put on your shoes. Get ready for work.

Playwrights here last night. Too much talk of the economics of theater. I want something to be pure, just once. Paradoxically, you have to be very, very rich for the theater to be pure. Or anything. Or so poor nothing matters.