February 19, 2017

Day begins with some Mantuan’s “Vespers of Saint Barbara,” noble and distant. Night ended with a dinner party at the Ms’, convivial, a brief, lively panel out of Bruegel. Coughing with extraordinary–and rather satisfying–intensity. “Productive,” as they say. Bought the last piece of furniture I anticipate needing for my house, a roundy Dutch dresser for my bedroom, to put precious things in. I insisted on hauling it myself, to see if I still could. I could. The Starbucks flat white at my elbow seems to be refilling itself as I drink. Gray through the study window.  Looked through the NYC playwrights blog, and there is nowhere to send any of my plays. Dead-stopped. Against the wall.  Perhaps that’s well, since staying awake is almost all I can handle.