Saturday, April 30, 2016

I was hit by something last night in my sleep.

¿Dónde está el Siete Madres?
Long night of strange dreams. I have an impending performance, so there was the obligatory performance anxiety dream. Because I have doubts about whether I should ever be producing anything in public, anywhere at any time for any one, naturally I conceived of and had widely promoted a one-night only, script-in-hand reading of Tennessee Williams' controversial, three hour drama, Camino Real.

When I say controversial, I mean that it is widely unliked and when anyone produces it, people burst into such controversial arguments as, "Why did you choose to produce this play?" or "What were you thinking when you chose to produce this play?" or even "Who do you think you are, choosing to produce this play?"

I had tapped a friend from college to play "the Gypsy" and ran into her on the street the day of the performance and when I asked her if she were ready for the reading, she said she didn't know what I was talking about. I had entirely neglected to contact her about the event.

Distance: 5 miles
Route: Boulevard/Noble Loop
Temperature: 57°
Climate: overcast & cool
Weight: 161.5 lbs. (-1.5)
Mood:  much better

Later, my family was heading into someone's house, filing through the back door the way you do, one person at a time. My mother was in there, the kids, my wife, and father. I knew when I saw him, his back (he was wearing his long coat) the back of his neck, his head, that he wasn't really there, that he was a ghost. Someone was in my way as I entered, I wanted to get through the doors to reach him, to touch him.

By the time I reached the front room he was gone. I woke up, or I think I woke up, my wife got up before me this morning, she was in the shower. I was in our bed crying, but then I woke up again and my cheeks were dry.

What's That Lyric?
Dead Man's Party - Oingo Boingo

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