Flight

 January 22, 2026

Jolly and raucous rehearsal. I realize that the things that distract and irritate me about rehearsal are the things that the new boys think are “fun” and attract them to the group.  

Impending storm is the center of all news reports. In a moment of either rashness or providence, I chose to flee to Folly Beach, which seems to lie outside of all the sleet-and-ice projections. Of course I think I will never return, and fly about trying to leave everything in order, trying to finish the play I was working on so it can be found intact. The nervous issue is that I fear the cold. I don’t know that I fear anything else so much. The prospect of the power being out and my sitting alone in a dark and freezing house is appalling enough to counteract my normal desire to squat at home among my tasks and things. 

I ask Alexa, “Who’s your favorite composer?” She answers “Beyonce,” then after a pause adds, “But with your preference for Baroque masters such as Bach and Purcell, I imagine there would be disagreement on that.” Nice to be known, creepy to be known by an appliance.