December 19, 2015

Morning of multiple leaden despondencies. Sat in the café and let the weight sink upon me for a few minutes, the morning sun in my eyes so tears of frustration could look like a physical response. Nothing is changed but time, and I feel better, and I don’t want to return there to figure it out. An editor who stupidly refuses my work wants a contribution to his magazine. The calm I sought with morning coffee obliterated by a seven foot tall braying jackass. I hate the show and regret with my whole being not only taking it on, but desperately WANTING to, back when it seemed a good idea. Last night I had to cough at the exact instant a solo of mine began, the big intake of breath irritating the throat, and the sound that came out was ungodly. Christmas is obliterated for me, and for what, and how many more do I have left? If we once got it right, maybe I’d feel differently, but since there’s some new calamity every night, it doesn’t seem likely. Two shows today, one show and a Cantaria concert tomorrow. I’d say it’s unendurable, except that I know I’ll end up enduring it. The audience seems to be moved anyway, but I’m sorry it’s despite rather than because of us. No time and no desire to buy or decorate a tree this year. I did squeeze limes and make limeade. That I hold up as my achievement.