April 10, 2008
I was having coffee with DJ yesterday morning, and I said, "This is the first day in weeks when I’ve actually felt well." We got in the car and drove to the Arboretum. I had wanted to trudge off into the deep forest and see what was blossoming there, but given my state of exhaustion when we’d finished with the planted beds, I wonder if I would have made it. The day was perfect. We saw a huge anole, like a blister on the bark of a tree. We had excellent blueberry pie. We saw JT, like a figure out of an old story we had never finished reading.
Dug out a patch half in shadow and half in sun for my blue Tibetan poppies. May they prosper and may their homeland prosper.
Last night it was UNCA’s The Tempest Project at the Diana Wortham. It was gawdawful. It was bad as a production can be only when wilfulness is married to incompetence. The costumes were gorgeous. Somehow, the gorgeousness of the costumes, too, seemed a miscalculation, like dressing the tar baby in silk. Cody was good. Part of an actor’s duty is obeying the director, and in that, Cody was good. He could not save a ludicrous interpretation, but he was good.
Temptations afterward, where there is a crowd I don’t normally see. I don’t remember coming home. Glad DJ was driving. I do remember the moon, and insisting that it was rising, though it hung low and bent in the west.
Moments ago I finished the rewrite of Threnodies of Corinth. I sobbed through the last ten pages. To me, at this moment, it seems earth-shattering. But it has lain fallow for– what?– nearly a decade because of mocking voices and criticism which could not have been well-meant. I take other people’s counsel far to seriously. I recoil and retreat rather than considering. I violate every precept I try to give to my students.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
April 7, 2008
I was in the midst of a dream about– which play? Some play of mine. I had fallen asleep during it. I woke, and then the end of the scene came. What I noticed was that there seemed to be no live actors, but rather video with bad audio which was obscuring all the lines. I stood up and began shouting notes at the actors and techies. But, after a few agonizing moments, it became clear that it was not a rehearsal, but rather a performance, and I had been unconscious a considerable stretch of time. It was too dark to see if everybody were looking at me, but I’m sure they were. One of actors was sitting in the audience and whispered to me, "When all the fires go out, we’ll go back and see what we can salvage."
I was in the midst of a dream about– which play? Some play of mine. I had fallen asleep during it. I woke, and then the end of the scene came. What I noticed was that there seemed to be no live actors, but rather video with bad audio which was obscuring all the lines. I stood up and began shouting notes at the actors and techies. But, after a few agonizing moments, it became clear that it was not a rehearsal, but rather a performance, and I had been unconscious a considerable stretch of time. It was too dark to see if everybody were looking at me, but I’m sure they were. One of actors was sitting in the audience and whispered to me, "When all the fires go out, we’ll go back and see what we can salvage."
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Wrath
April 6, 2008
Every three or four years, it seems–it had been longer this time–I’m overcome by a possession which must be called demonic. I don’t know where it comes from, unless it’s the long accumulation of frustrations, each one of which may be hurled behind unnoticed, but the mass of which have been trooping behind in the shadows all the while. There’s no sign when they take me over, just rising wrath and gathering fury which become, in time, sometimes for weeks on end, the center of my life. Wrath has always been my pet among the Seven Deadlies, perhaps because it can be passed off as rational. Certain things really are grievous affronts, and the effort to avenge them is blameless to the mind. These people really have sought actively to ruin my life, and the simple calculus of things allows me to react in kind. Even now it doesn’t sound irrational. It sounds dark, hellish and no longer to be considered. This is the first time I recognized the process enough to bring it to an end by prayer and will. In the past it has merely exhausted itself in time, while I grew more and more hateful, made my life more and more dangerous. The most memorable of these occasions was 1987, when I almost lost a career over such suffocating, uncharacteristic fury that I could not put down the weapons even after I recognized they were cutting me every time they cut my enemy. "But I am right!" I would cry to the sky. The fact was that this point, which seemed the whole issue to me, didn’t matter at all to the progress of events. I saw something in me yesterday, heard a tone in my own inner voice. I held my hand out and said "Stop!" This morning I dreamed the sweetest dreams, and believe it to be over. It is as laughable at the little points as it is perilous at the big: me screaming with fury if the capsules didn’t come out of their packet at the first try; fighting off rage if a student asks the question that was answered two seconds ago while he was staring off into space; instantly rabid if the wrong letter was hit on the keyboard; blind rage at receiving a rejection of work I don’t remember from a publication for which I have no respect. Tyrants and demagogues are always ludicrous and appalling in equal measure. There are times–rare times, praise God– when I am so near to that state I almost understand, can almost make a defense. "But you don’t understand, I am right!"
Here’s the highest hurdle. I am right. But It doesn’t matter. That, for some reason, is not part of the fabric God is weaving just now. A person like me finds that almost–but, thank God, not quite–unendurable. And here is the last test, for today: if the demon revealed himself and said, "You can have those things which were stolen from you, you can punish the people who hurt you and those you love. Just say the word," on this murky April morning I would answer, "No."
Detroit Repertory Theater is interested in Eulogy, but wonders if I would object to a multi-racial cast. I think it is an odd question even to ask. Maybe they assume I am very old.
My discourse on wrath, while I was thinking it out, explained a number of things about my father as well, especially now, when his powerlessness and confusion probably allow his demons–so very like my demons-- free rein.
Had a breakthrough during my voice lesson Friday. Paul had been telling me what he wanted, but I had been misinterpreting it, and making worse the habit he wanted to correct. The light finally came on, and out of my mouth came this stab of silver I never heard from me before. Sang Purcell’s "Evening Prayer" and Mahler’s "Um Mitternacht" with the same spears of silver flashing in the air. It utterly amazed me. What a long process to master what is, on some levels at least, blissfully natural. I want to sing now all the time.
Here is my morning prayer, Lord of the Universe: Let me always know when I am being ridiculous.
Every three or four years, it seems–it had been longer this time–I’m overcome by a possession which must be called demonic. I don’t know where it comes from, unless it’s the long accumulation of frustrations, each one of which may be hurled behind unnoticed, but the mass of which have been trooping behind in the shadows all the while. There’s no sign when they take me over, just rising wrath and gathering fury which become, in time, sometimes for weeks on end, the center of my life. Wrath has always been my pet among the Seven Deadlies, perhaps because it can be passed off as rational. Certain things really are grievous affronts, and the effort to avenge them is blameless to the mind. These people really have sought actively to ruin my life, and the simple calculus of things allows me to react in kind. Even now it doesn’t sound irrational. It sounds dark, hellish and no longer to be considered. This is the first time I recognized the process enough to bring it to an end by prayer and will. In the past it has merely exhausted itself in time, while I grew more and more hateful, made my life more and more dangerous. The most memorable of these occasions was 1987, when I almost lost a career over such suffocating, uncharacteristic fury that I could not put down the weapons even after I recognized they were cutting me every time they cut my enemy. "But I am right!" I would cry to the sky. The fact was that this point, which seemed the whole issue to me, didn’t matter at all to the progress of events. I saw something in me yesterday, heard a tone in my own inner voice. I held my hand out and said "Stop!" This morning I dreamed the sweetest dreams, and believe it to be over. It is as laughable at the little points as it is perilous at the big: me screaming with fury if the capsules didn’t come out of their packet at the first try; fighting off rage if a student asks the question that was answered two seconds ago while he was staring off into space; instantly rabid if the wrong letter was hit on the keyboard; blind rage at receiving a rejection of work I don’t remember from a publication for which I have no respect. Tyrants and demagogues are always ludicrous and appalling in equal measure. There are times–rare times, praise God– when I am so near to that state I almost understand, can almost make a defense. "But you don’t understand, I am right!"
Here’s the highest hurdle. I am right. But It doesn’t matter. That, for some reason, is not part of the fabric God is weaving just now. A person like me finds that almost–but, thank God, not quite–unendurable. And here is the last test, for today: if the demon revealed himself and said, "You can have those things which were stolen from you, you can punish the people who hurt you and those you love. Just say the word," on this murky April morning I would answer, "No."
Detroit Repertory Theater is interested in Eulogy, but wonders if I would object to a multi-racial cast. I think it is an odd question even to ask. Maybe they assume I am very old.
My discourse on wrath, while I was thinking it out, explained a number of things about my father as well, especially now, when his powerlessness and confusion probably allow his demons–so very like my demons-- free rein.
Had a breakthrough during my voice lesson Friday. Paul had been telling me what he wanted, but I had been misinterpreting it, and making worse the habit he wanted to correct. The light finally came on, and out of my mouth came this stab of silver I never heard from me before. Sang Purcell’s "Evening Prayer" and Mahler’s "Um Mitternacht" with the same spears of silver flashing in the air. It utterly amazed me. What a long process to master what is, on some levels at least, blissfully natural. I want to sing now all the time.
Here is my morning prayer, Lord of the Universe: Let me always know when I am being ridiculous.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Fascists at Mannings Ridge
April 4, 2008
Wondering why I feel so run-down. It’s like flu, but if it is, it’s stalled five days at one moment of its progress.
Cold morning, but still a morning of spring. Jack Batman e-mails to invite me to the gala pre-festival benefit for Gayfest, an evening of jollity starring Leslie Jordan, a campy actor whom I remember from TV shows. I did consider it, but it would be $800 for two days in New York, and I can’t add that to the stack just now. One of the other playwrights in the festival, Brian Dykstra, is billed as "Special Guest," and I hope that’s because he too is a performer and not because he’s suddenly the designated celebrity playwright. In any case, it points out the disadvantage of living in Asheville and trying to have a career of some dimension in New York. You either have to live there or have the means to get there whenever summoned. No one will know you. No one will remember you from the time before. For the moment I must live my life as though that were not true.
Discussing with my students the Black Swan readings of the last two weeks. They preferred E’s, while I preferred H’s. But during the discussion I realized I preferred H’s because it was tight, streamlined, with no problems she was willing to fix, professional, slick, its obvious limitations exhibiting themselves as choices. Exactly the play that would be praised in a graduate school workshop, one, anyway, which leaned toward the professional rather than the experimental. E’s was awkward, raw, too new, intelligent, brilliant, intriguing. I have allowed my judgment in these matters to change from that of the artist to that of the producer, and that was a mistake I mean to reverse as fast as I can.
The Mannings Ridge Homeowners Association, where my sister lives in Alpharetta, has decreed that she must remove the ramp her friends built to get dad and his wheelchair into her house. The ignorance, cruelty, and self-satisfaction of this have been choking me with bile since she told me of it. Even if she had the ramp rebuilt by professions, which is what they say they want, the committee chairman said he’d sit on the proposal with his fat ass for as long as he is allowed. Clearly they must get some satisfaction out of complicating the life of a sick old man. The un-diseased mind will probably never comprehend it. It’s the George Bush model: no need to support the best choice, no need to avoid the worst choice, the only thing being to show who has the power to make the rules. I hate them with a pure and righteous hatred.
I have not been putting things behind me as I should. I have not gotten over the fact that the three stupidest faculty at UNCA were allowed to deprive me of Cambridge, in defiance of their responsibility to their students’ welfare, to the authority of the program, and in grotesque and shrugging defiance of their own application process. One rather expected that from them, but that they should be allowed that power without review and correction still chokes me with disgust. It’s like leaving the house and the baby in the care of the guinea pigs and going on a long vacation. I have not gotten over being at first granted and then denied leave next year on the most transparently dishonest and partial pretext, and Kathy and Sam both either in collusion or without honor enough to change a very bad decision. I have not gotten over being passed over for India in favor of nitwits (some of them) by the authority, I think now, of the same nitwits who presided over the Cambridge selection. That nitwits should prefer nitwits is not surprising, but there should be some system of review and correction. I have not gotten over these issues, and some of them are old. Those slime bags at Mannings Ridge brought it all bubbling back to the surface. I do blame Bush, in part. He gave people the idea that the worst program in the world will be allowed if you swagger enough, if you portray your idiocy as a higher wisdom.
Wondering why I feel so run-down. It’s like flu, but if it is, it’s stalled five days at one moment of its progress.
Cold morning, but still a morning of spring. Jack Batman e-mails to invite me to the gala pre-festival benefit for Gayfest, an evening of jollity starring Leslie Jordan, a campy actor whom I remember from TV shows. I did consider it, but it would be $800 for two days in New York, and I can’t add that to the stack just now. One of the other playwrights in the festival, Brian Dykstra, is billed as "Special Guest," and I hope that’s because he too is a performer and not because he’s suddenly the designated celebrity playwright. In any case, it points out the disadvantage of living in Asheville and trying to have a career of some dimension in New York. You either have to live there or have the means to get there whenever summoned. No one will know you. No one will remember you from the time before. For the moment I must live my life as though that were not true.
Discussing with my students the Black Swan readings of the last two weeks. They preferred E’s, while I preferred H’s. But during the discussion I realized I preferred H’s because it was tight, streamlined, with no problems she was willing to fix, professional, slick, its obvious limitations exhibiting themselves as choices. Exactly the play that would be praised in a graduate school workshop, one, anyway, which leaned toward the professional rather than the experimental. E’s was awkward, raw, too new, intelligent, brilliant, intriguing. I have allowed my judgment in these matters to change from that of the artist to that of the producer, and that was a mistake I mean to reverse as fast as I can.
The Mannings Ridge Homeowners Association, where my sister lives in Alpharetta, has decreed that she must remove the ramp her friends built to get dad and his wheelchair into her house. The ignorance, cruelty, and self-satisfaction of this have been choking me with bile since she told me of it. Even if she had the ramp rebuilt by professions, which is what they say they want, the committee chairman said he’d sit on the proposal with his fat ass for as long as he is allowed. Clearly they must get some satisfaction out of complicating the life of a sick old man. The un-diseased mind will probably never comprehend it. It’s the George Bush model: no need to support the best choice, no need to avoid the worst choice, the only thing being to show who has the power to make the rules. I hate them with a pure and righteous hatred.
I have not been putting things behind me as I should. I have not gotten over the fact that the three stupidest faculty at UNCA were allowed to deprive me of Cambridge, in defiance of their responsibility to their students’ welfare, to the authority of the program, and in grotesque and shrugging defiance of their own application process. One rather expected that from them, but that they should be allowed that power without review and correction still chokes me with disgust. It’s like leaving the house and the baby in the care of the guinea pigs and going on a long vacation. I have not gotten over being at first granted and then denied leave next year on the most transparently dishonest and partial pretext, and Kathy and Sam both either in collusion or without honor enough to change a very bad decision. I have not gotten over being passed over for India in favor of nitwits (some of them) by the authority, I think now, of the same nitwits who presided over the Cambridge selection. That nitwits should prefer nitwits is not surprising, but there should be some system of review and correction. I have not gotten over these issues, and some of them are old. Those slime bags at Mannings Ridge brought it all bubbling back to the surface. I do blame Bush, in part. He gave people the idea that the worst program in the world will be allowed if you swagger enough, if you portray your idiocy as a higher wisdom.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Revisions
April 2, 2008
What tumult for a fine sweet spring day!
The reading of Edward in Hollywood was not particularly a success. From what Pavel implied, the actors were under-rehearsed, under-prepared, and perhaps a little unsympathetic to the script. In addition, he reports that lighting made every mistake it conceivably could. I don’t know why there WAS lighting at a casual reading. The actor playing Mortimer had a good deal to say about the script, but it sounded like the blame-placing of an actor who was unprepared and didn’t do well. One of my goals is actor-proofing, but I cannot possibly anticipate all the ways an actor can go astray. A couple of other people had comments, which Pavel reported. None of them seemed actual–that is to say, actually a fault in the script-- so I ignored them and put the event down as something which might bear fruit in the future. But I woke this morning feeling as if I had been contemplating those critiques all night. I summoned Edward to the screen, revising widely if not massively, tweaking here and there, fixing things which had bothered me during its run here, even following some of the advice sent to me from Hollywood, thinking it could as well be a way that didn’t arouse criticism as a way that did. Some criticisms– "the soliloquies are too long"– are reflexive and asinine, but, if you can write the scene so even a dumbshit audience cannot make one particular dumbshit observation, why not do it? I sent the revision to Sid and my actors in New York. Within fifteen minutes–after my not hearing from any of these people for months–B was on the phone foaming at the mouth for being left out of the loop, practically weeping over my–what? Malice? Insubordination? Cruelly manifest desire to wreck his life and his production? That my sending out revisions would be read as an act of violence never entered my mind. That I should have sent them to the producers first rather than to the people who were actually going to use them never entered my mind. I thought I was saving everyone time and bother. So I sent the revisions to B and J, with a note repeating I was sorry but also stating my conviction–rather mildly–that they had blown a gasket over nothing. B phoned with an apology. I accepted and assured him all was forgotten. I don’t fully understand what ignites that bunch up there, so I don’t know how to prevent future explosions. Perhaps my not letting this one go unchallenged will help.
Rented a U-Haul and brought a garage full of DJ’s and my junk to the Cantaria yard sale locale. I’d planned this for some future moment, but, as usual, precipitous action proved the better choice.
Planted my mail-order walking ferns in the wet loam of the back terrace. Dug weeds out with a trowel.
What tumult for a fine sweet spring day!
The reading of Edward in Hollywood was not particularly a success. From what Pavel implied, the actors were under-rehearsed, under-prepared, and perhaps a little unsympathetic to the script. In addition, he reports that lighting made every mistake it conceivably could. I don’t know why there WAS lighting at a casual reading. The actor playing Mortimer had a good deal to say about the script, but it sounded like the blame-placing of an actor who was unprepared and didn’t do well. One of my goals is actor-proofing, but I cannot possibly anticipate all the ways an actor can go astray. A couple of other people had comments, which Pavel reported. None of them seemed actual–that is to say, actually a fault in the script-- so I ignored them and put the event down as something which might bear fruit in the future. But I woke this morning feeling as if I had been contemplating those critiques all night. I summoned Edward to the screen, revising widely if not massively, tweaking here and there, fixing things which had bothered me during its run here, even following some of the advice sent to me from Hollywood, thinking it could as well be a way that didn’t arouse criticism as a way that did. Some criticisms– "the soliloquies are too long"– are reflexive and asinine, but, if you can write the scene so even a dumbshit audience cannot make one particular dumbshit observation, why not do it? I sent the revision to Sid and my actors in New York. Within fifteen minutes–after my not hearing from any of these people for months–B was on the phone foaming at the mouth for being left out of the loop, practically weeping over my–what? Malice? Insubordination? Cruelly manifest desire to wreck his life and his production? That my sending out revisions would be read as an act of violence never entered my mind. That I should have sent them to the producers first rather than to the people who were actually going to use them never entered my mind. I thought I was saving everyone time and bother. So I sent the revisions to B and J, with a note repeating I was sorry but also stating my conviction–rather mildly–that they had blown a gasket over nothing. B phoned with an apology. I accepted and assured him all was forgotten. I don’t fully understand what ignites that bunch up there, so I don’t know how to prevent future explosions. Perhaps my not letting this one go unchallenged will help.
Rented a U-Haul and brought a garage full of DJ’s and my junk to the Cantaria yard sale locale. I’d planned this for some future moment, but, as usual, precipitous action proved the better choice.
Planted my mail-order walking ferns in the wet loam of the back terrace. Dug weeds out with a trowel.
April 1, 2008
Though it is still dark, I have been up for an hour, and in that time have gotten nothing done but taking out of garbage and cleaning up of messes. Most of the day will be spent in exactly that way, re-dos of things that should be over, application to tasks unnecessary or thoughtlessly imposed. Even legitimate tasks inspire resentment, because on forgets how to discriminate.
M decides she’s back in the game, that she will cash the check and pay whom we can pay. After all expenses we made about $450 dollars. I expected less, actually, but everyone was fantasizing about more. She asks me to write an e-mail to the cast and crew, explaining our financial situation. She asks me to do it under the theory that while everyone shits on her, nobody shits on me. I understood what she meant by that, but the real reason, I think, is that she interprets many things as getting shat on that I interpret altogether differently, exhaustion or personality quirks or, occasionally, legitimate questions asked at the wrong time. Belve, for instance, is forever stalling the action with a scattershot of questions or comments, and she will pick one of those as the moment to decide she’s being shat upon, and fire back. Belve then looks astonished, trying to figure out what, exactly, was the trigger this time. I did send the email, and the responses have been, so far, along the lines of "don’t worry about me, I’m satisfied with the experience." Though the individuals who had harangued her most for payment have not yet replied. The individuals who have harangued most for payment are, perhaps not incidentally, exactly those people whom public comment singled out for substandard performance, tech and set. We had to delay a performance for forty minutes while one of them got out of bed. It was my counsel then to pay him nothing.
Got the pharmacist to give me the most high-powered antihistamine he could without a prescription. I took it Saturday night. I was annihilated all Sunday, largely out of it yesterday, and am still woozy today. Let me remind myself never to do that again, unless I want to be useless for a couple of days. Turned on the vaporizer in the bedroom, which achieved the same ends that I had desired from the pill, without changing me at all.
On the other hand, my blanket of violets is coming into variegated bloom. The bloodroots hold up their white starbursts day after day, and the tree peonies are shooting out their red stalks. The male goldfinches have turned back to gold. The robins stand around with beaks stuffed with dry grass.
Received a check from Emerson College. I have no idea why. Something I forgot, something which is not yet revealed to me. Nice in any case.
Gave my lecture on Persia and Alexander, still in my antihistamine daze. No comments, except that I looked good. Probably the comment I wanted anyway.
Though it is still dark, I have been up for an hour, and in that time have gotten nothing done but taking out of garbage and cleaning up of messes. Most of the day will be spent in exactly that way, re-dos of things that should be over, application to tasks unnecessary or thoughtlessly imposed. Even legitimate tasks inspire resentment, because on forgets how to discriminate.
M decides she’s back in the game, that she will cash the check and pay whom we can pay. After all expenses we made about $450 dollars. I expected less, actually, but everyone was fantasizing about more. She asks me to write an e-mail to the cast and crew, explaining our financial situation. She asks me to do it under the theory that while everyone shits on her, nobody shits on me. I understood what she meant by that, but the real reason, I think, is that she interprets many things as getting shat on that I interpret altogether differently, exhaustion or personality quirks or, occasionally, legitimate questions asked at the wrong time. Belve, for instance, is forever stalling the action with a scattershot of questions or comments, and she will pick one of those as the moment to decide she’s being shat upon, and fire back. Belve then looks astonished, trying to figure out what, exactly, was the trigger this time. I did send the email, and the responses have been, so far, along the lines of "don’t worry about me, I’m satisfied with the experience." Though the individuals who had harangued her most for payment have not yet replied. The individuals who have harangued most for payment are, perhaps not incidentally, exactly those people whom public comment singled out for substandard performance, tech and set. We had to delay a performance for forty minutes while one of them got out of bed. It was my counsel then to pay him nothing.
Got the pharmacist to give me the most high-powered antihistamine he could without a prescription. I took it Saturday night. I was annihilated all Sunday, largely out of it yesterday, and am still woozy today. Let me remind myself never to do that again, unless I want to be useless for a couple of days. Turned on the vaporizer in the bedroom, which achieved the same ends that I had desired from the pill, without changing me at all.
On the other hand, my blanket of violets is coming into variegated bloom. The bloodroots hold up their white starbursts day after day, and the tree peonies are shooting out their red stalks. The male goldfinches have turned back to gold. The robins stand around with beaks stuffed with dry grass.
Received a check from Emerson College. I have no idea why. Something I forgot, something which is not yet revealed to me. Nice in any case.
Gave my lecture on Persia and Alexander, still in my antihistamine daze. No comments, except that I looked good. Probably the comment I wanted anyway.
March 30, 2008
Very odd weekend. I have lived like a wild man. I have done nothing but what I wanted to do. I have not showered since Thursday night. I painted excellently, and finished Dead Lovers Meeting at Moonrise and a small picture I call Dogs of the Apocalypse I. I think I have written, but it was longhand in the café, and I will have to look at it to see what I have. Got some strong medicine from the pharmacist to battle my sinus congestion. It turns out to be too strong for me, and I have that moving-underwater groggy feeling you get from too much medicine. Did not go to the Crown Cast party last night. Part of it was debility from medication; part of it was that sick feeling you have for a day or so after a good massage (Ben, Friday afternoon); part of it was that the massage ickiness read to me for a while like phlebitis. Part of it was a series of semi-translatable messages from M that made me reluctant to see anybody involved with what was beginning to look like a horrific mess.
Maybe I should collaborate only with men. I don’t know that men are necessarily more stable, but with them I can usually figure out what the problem is.
Very odd weekend. I have lived like a wild man. I have done nothing but what I wanted to do. I have not showered since Thursday night. I painted excellently, and finished Dead Lovers Meeting at Moonrise and a small picture I call Dogs of the Apocalypse I. I think I have written, but it was longhand in the café, and I will have to look at it to see what I have. Got some strong medicine from the pharmacist to battle my sinus congestion. It turns out to be too strong for me, and I have that moving-underwater groggy feeling you get from too much medicine. Did not go to the Crown Cast party last night. Part of it was debility from medication; part of it was that sick feeling you have for a day or so after a good massage (Ben, Friday afternoon); part of it was that the massage ickiness read to me for a while like phlebitis. Part of it was a series of semi-translatable messages from M that made me reluctant to see anybody involved with what was beginning to look like a horrific mess.
Maybe I should collaborate only with men. I don’t know that men are necessarily more stable, but with them I can usually figure out what the problem is.
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