Still Sore

I don't know what I did. A knot on the trapezius behind my left shoulder. Afraid I'll need to self-medicate again. I might have lifted something at full extension that was a little too heavy. The piece of railway track we use to hold open the theater door. Bastard must weight thirty pounds. The damned thing must have a history, it's at a museum, after all. I just don't know what it is. Maybe I'll just invent a history for it, point it out on my tours, and talk about it like an old friend. Docenting the rail. There's a large green grasshopper in the house and it's driving me crazy. The bat net I keep at the museum would be the perfect extraction device. It only cost a dollar, if I can only find another one; like a miniature butterfly net, with a three foot bamboo handle. I massaged the knot with the Arnica cream Linda had sent when I broke my toe, and it feels better, and I feel better on my second splash of sour mash. I do love drinking alone, talking to myself, trying to figure out, any given day, what, exactly, is going on. Too many commas, I know, but I got a lovely email from a brilliant friend today, and she thought my commas were just fine. She might quibble about one here or there, but she understands the oral tradition and that I punctuate to indicate to myself how I would read that line. Spent several hours with TR today, talking about the Emily Project. I don't even want to talk about it until after Linda, TR and I can brainstorm. It occurs to me that Glenn will probably film the process. Listened to some great stuff today, musical settings for the poems, but TR and I agree we want more than. There would be a desk on stage, so we can get into the letters, there'd be a oven, so she could bake, and there'd be a door she could speak from behind. Ending at the desk, writing that last note "Called Back". Any couple of hours you could spend talking about Emily Dickinson is time well spent. I have unusual friends. I probably do it more than most. Mid-afternoon I'm listening to art songs, Copeland, John Adams, really, I just want to hear the words clearly. If I can't understand it anyway, I'd rather it be in Italian. Or Greek, or something. But Emily is uniquely American, she's not the Bronte girls, she's an act unto herself. If you don't get that, you miss the whole point. She's proto everything. What we call pre-modernism, because we need something to call it.