January 17, 2018

Limped my way toward the light. Projectile dry-heaves entered the mix on Sunday night. Inflammation appeared in the leg, as it customarily did but hasn’t in a while. Made my way to MAHEC, to the doctor, not expecting to learn anything new, and having my expectations met. Went to my fist classes, which I managed. By the time 7 PM hit I was literally spent. Came home and slept. Rose. Sampled and threw out the frozen New Year’s chili. Tried to convince, along with the actors, A that Night Music is in trouble, the director having misinterpreted everything interpretable. I pride myself on being able to director-proof a work, but there is a level of stubborn perversity that exceeds my prophetic skill. A sends a note meant to be reassuring, but really isn’t. I picture myself stomping in and bellowing, “You’re fired! I’ll direct!” But, finally, I don’t have the energy for that or what would follow. This was meant to be my art opening in Mars Hill. It could not possibly have happened. The whole city is closed down by snow and cold, so I do not feel singular.