Yesterday I went to hear a semi-staged reading of a dystopian sci-fi musical satire. It was a great deal of fun. It was also a workshop: there were surveys to fill out and a talkback afterward. I have no idea if anything I said was valuable, but apparently the bit where I confessed to having a thing for "grandiosely geeky second-string villains" was entertaining. Bits of the score are still stuck in my head.
Today I sneezed and broke my life: I sorted a box of papers dating back to 2008 and then I had to cancel my plans for the evening. (Which always makes me feel like a complete fruit loop. Yes, I'm totally around, except for how I'm suddenly not.) I have been self-medicating with Margery Allingham, but Tiny Wittgenstein has parked himself on my shoulder and he is a persistent little neurosis. Also, I don't think we have the same taste in mysteries.
I think I am mostly annoyed. I've been sorting papers for the last few days; I hate it, but it hadn't been so draining or depressing as to render me incapable of human interaction. I can't tell if this one went too far back in time or whether it was a cumulative effect. I'm hoping it's short-lived. The only upside has been finding all the notes I took (and in some cases never did anything with), sharply-pencilled legal pages for the most part, which I have set aside in a stack of their own. Some of them turned into poems. Some of them, I have no idea.
( These are the first five pages in the stack. I felt like transcribing. )
I'm going back to Dancers in Mourning (1937). At least I had a month.
Today I sneezed and broke my life: I sorted a box of papers dating back to 2008 and then I had to cancel my plans for the evening. (Which always makes me feel like a complete fruit loop. Yes, I'm totally around, except for how I'm suddenly not.) I have been self-medicating with Margery Allingham, but Tiny Wittgenstein has parked himself on my shoulder and he is a persistent little neurosis. Also, I don't think we have the same taste in mysteries.
I think I am mostly annoyed. I've been sorting papers for the last few days; I hate it, but it hadn't been so draining or depressing as to render me incapable of human interaction. I can't tell if this one went too far back in time or whether it was a cumulative effect. I'm hoping it's short-lived. The only upside has been finding all the notes I took (and in some cases never did anything with), sharply-pencilled legal pages for the most part, which I have set aside in a stack of their own. Some of them turned into poems. Some of them, I have no idea.
( These are the first five pages in the stack. I felt like transcribing. )
I'm going back to Dancers in Mourning (1937). At least I had a month.
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