April 23, 2016

Shakespeare has been dead 400 years. Just heard the story that he and Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton had a rousing night on the town from which William never recovered. I hope that is the truth.
   
Earth Day, and I gardened heroically, large shrubs and little flowers. Staggered with tiredness afterwards. Napped a hole in the rest of the day. I have determined to take out the northward fence and make a barrier of vegetation between the apartments and myself. Meant to paint, meant to write, did nothing but dig and sleep.
   
No sightings of my wondrously camouflaged philosopher fish.
   
Opening night last night went well enough, to a middling but enthusiastic crowd. I substituted a few words here and there, but the damage never included a full line. Was praised for my Camillo more than quite could be believed. I was inventive and responsive, but my lines were not quicksilver. Florizel blowing hi breath in my face, the smell of breath and a body after a full day– quick thought in that crystal-etched moment of how little intimacy I have known. The birds chirp and the water in the pond runs. In moments I must be in the car again.