September 14, 2016

Distant thunder, which I take to be a feint. I drag the hose from plot to plot, promising to keep my flowery friends alive until the sky comes to its senses.
   
Yike says the frog arcing into the pool. He alone has sufficient water.
   
Strange combination in recent days of electric excitement and exhaustion. I wonder if the hemoglobin is low again, or perhaps the excitement brings its own shadow with it. It has been months– no, years-- since I had so many balls in the air. Or any balls to speak of at all. At JB’s invitation I sent four plays to him in New York. On one hand, it is a victory already, for the plays are good and if he is going to choose any serious work, it will be them. On the other hand, I send them just as they want me to invest in The Great Comet with Josh Groban, which I would do if I could put my hands on $25,000, which of course I cannot. When I went to look at my investments toward that end, the market was down 200 points and my portfolio a sea of red. So, here’s hoping it’s not meant to be reciprocal. Like a driver skidding on ice, I lean back, take my foot off the brake and let it unfold.
   
Good, participatory classes, even so early in the morning.