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.)