I kill time. That’s all I do all day, every day. I have a single goal: To do something with my dresses and script. But it’s non-binding; I don’t really care whether anything happens with it or not. It’s fair to say that I’m stagnating. I take all these pills to maintain a life with no purpose.
Some peers travel a lot. Others are still trying to “be something;” still caught up with appearance and power. Some still work. Visiting with friends is something many do, including me, but that’s losing its appeal, I’m sad to admit.
My play project is how I chose to fill my abundant time. And that goal is only served in the writing and property-making stage. If it goes into production I’ll have six more dresses to make and then the whole project be over for me — except to see it on stage.
And speaking of that … Monday morning I re re-wrote the ending. It’s become a bit of a wine ballet — wine is a central character; the stage directions map the movements of bottles and glasses and there’s plenty of glass filling direction as well.
I wrote to Boca and asked if they wanted a copy of the draft and they did. I sent them a copy and now my anxiety, of course, if focused on rejection. They decide in two-to-four weeks.
Monday afternoon I went to see The Red Turtle. Even with Cipralex, my walk to see it was rough. The walk home was better. (Turtle is odd, animated and beautiful. It’s an animated watercolour painting. It’s without dialogue and has lovely moody music. I loved it. John and Bunny, maybe not so much.)