December 14, 2018

Circe screamed quite horribly twice in the night. That, or I dreamed it. But in the morning she had stopped moving even to piss, so I lifted her from a pool of her own urine and took her to the Vet. He found a skin infection which might be serious enough to change her behavior. While she was at the Vet’s, she began to limp horribly. Dr Eddie put the limp and the screaming together and wondered if she might have “thrown a clot.” But I brought her home. I had to lift her out of the litter box, where she had taken up residence, twice, and opened a little cave for her in the bathroom cupboard. She was sitting at the edge of the cupboard this morning, looking bewildered. The limp is still bad. Either she did “throw a clot” or she got injured somehow in the car. She head-butted like mad to get comfort from me in the doctor’s office.  A few hours ago she left her cupboard-lair for the first time, to eat and drink. I think that is a good sign.

Stopped by Petco, where a woman asked me to help her in with an aquarium with two sizable bearded dragons. “I’m re-gifting these,” she said, “they’re my son’s, but he hasn’t been taking care of them properly.” I was returning flea bombs, which, I discover from the label, would have exploded once they hit my several pilot lights.

Rehearsal at Grace Presbyterian for the GMC concert. We probably did well enough for having another rehearsal before the Big Night. Jon will be here tonight to hear our piece for the first time. Mike the Australian stood beside me; he sounds really good. The men on either side of me are well over six feet tall. It must look ridiculous. Avenue M for cocktails after rehearsal.

Drove to Waynesville to go to a Christmas store I remembered there. Turns out it has been closed for two years. Nevertheless I bought a few things here and there. When I walked into one store someone shouted “Hamlet’s Father!” It was Polonius, recovered from his wounds. 

I have a reading in Los Angeles in September for The Falls of the Wyona.

Massive, vivid, complicated, narrative dreams. Last night– well, I’ve lost most of it, but I was in love and living with a handsome blond man. We lived in a sprawling sci-fi mansion stretched around a fabulous garden. Our life was perfect, even after someone suggested he was probably a robot. He admitted he was a robot, and though I didn’t care, he did, and, I think, faded away. Comforters came to me and tried to get me to write an opera, which they said would take my mind off the loss. I knew, but they didn’t, that he had turned into a sort of ghost, and we would laugh together at my comforters once we were alone.

Trump a step closer to prison, where he would be already were he anybody else. One tries not to rejoice in the misfortune of others.