POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
Wednesday morning. And maybe the only thing left that resembles a routine right now is this early morning writing. I haven’t run in nearly a week. I haven’t cooked. Two days ago Leonard jumped down from the bed and hurt his forefoot. So walks have been pared to a minimum. I’m living on lithium, paracetamol,…
E. is putting in a new ventilation system in the house, which means he has taken down some of my bookshelves in the little library. Books are piled on my desk. The little rug is folded and laid on my chair. And the floor is littered with power tools and bits of shiny who-knows-what. And…
From my desk, I face a huge window that looks out on the third-floor void between my corridor and the theater pavilion. Light comes in from the glass ceiling. It’s not a view of the outside, but I got that before work when the world was normal. There are far worse workspaces. Some of the…
Getting going in the mornings is like trying to herd cats, as they say. I remember pulling the crockpot out of the corner and onto the countertop to start dinner. Lunchtime I went back into the kitchen to see it there. Empty. Useless. Forlorn. I’m projecting again. I keep reminding myself (at the risk of…