March 18, 2022

Rose up after strange and vivid post-sleep reveries. It will be a perfect day for gardening if my toe and my wind cooperate. 

Reading my Stanislavsky book. I wonder what my feelings for the theater actually are. I loved being an actor, but drifted away several time without much regret, and the present drift seems permanent and without nostalgia. Do I think of it as a literary genre? I do get weary hearing about the craft and struggle of the actor, when my advice is, ever: “Understand the lines, say the lines loudly and clearly, at every moment see what you’re saying.” That would not make a very thick book. 

Reading 10 minute plays for the Magnetic contest. Some are good. But I find myself writing things like, “Gave me the dry heaves. . .  Not if we were in a bomb shelter in Kyiv. . . .etc.”

Evening: turns out that it was a sensational day for gardening, every second on the verge of rain without, until just now, quite spilling over. I unloaded the pickup (many, many wet bags), dug bamboo, dug plots for plants yet to be sown, filled the front raised bed, planted and mulched a large stand of hibiscus. All this with my toe shutting up and without one breathing issue. Most excellent.