May 20, 2016

Walking up the stairs and keeping my breath made me think that the iron was kicking in a little, though now I am so sleepy I could lay my head down on the keyboard and be gone. Very odd night. In a dream I went to a restaurant, and though I forget what I ordered, I was served a little dog sitting up in a pan. It was scorched and obviously in pain, and they said, “He’s not quite done, but you can start in anyhow.” I fled the restaurant, but all night the dreams were of wounded and cooked dogs, of servers running after one with the horrible things in their hands. DJ and I had eaten at Avenue M after the concert, but neither of us had had dog.
   
The concert was six or seven times better than we anticipated. Tiny, appreciative audience. Ruth commented on my smiling happy face, and I didn’t want to disillusion her by saying it was a rictus: by the end of the concert my back hurt, my feet hurt, I’d had the remarkable experience of cramps in my throat and the back of my neck, and I was staggering with exhaustion. But, I think I made it through, and never dropped the bass line. Despite all that it will linger in my mind as a good experience.
   
Showed Tom the pond. We couldn’t find the frog that had been singing the night before. I suppose that’s how he likes it.
   
Much thinking and research about 9/11.  Maybe it’s my next big play. That it was an inside job, that it was not as reported to the American people, is a conclusion made inevitable by any degree of research. That we will enter the middle of the century with the conviction that Dick Cheney is the worst person in American history seems plausible to me. Somebody was a traitor, anyway. Maybe a whole lot of somebodies.
   
Who knows why the mid and the curiosity go where they go?
   
Are the worst people the ones who cover their tracks? Or the ones so arrogant their attempts to cover their tracks are contemptuous and half-assed?
   
Memories of watching Daniel Boone on Sunday mornings with George.