Half Baked

Completely mad, of course. Not careless, but crazed by the stupidity of squirrels and certain people, I retreat to a dictionary and look up words I've noted on a piece of paper I keep in my pocket. It's not arrogance that keeps me on a ridge in southern Ohio, miles from anyplace that sells anything, without a cell phone, without a television, nibbling on the leaves of plants I can't identify, to see if they make me sick. It's more a conscious choice to live in the world and see what comes to play. I'm not brave, by any standard, I'd probably be called a coward, if it came down to a physical confrontation, but I can still run very fast for a few hundred yards, which is enough, in this era of over-weight muggers. I know people who have lost a 100 pounds and are still fat. We should render them for power. The average fat person in Mississippi (the fattest state in the nation) could power a small town for several days. We should be able to convert the carbon residue into a useful protein. Fuck science if it can't dig us out of a hole. My high hat collapses under my own weight. I can't speak for you. You have this other life, not my life at all, a completely 'other' existence, and I respect that, but what I want to do is change the way we look at this. Not that I can change anything, but the idea of change is a comforting notion. I sent something last night, a message from just beyond the grave, I should be more careful in the future, not to give up secrets. But I've found that if I'm completely honest no one believes me anyway. An odd twist. I want Emily to listen to the music and then turn, speak directly to the audience, when she recites the letters. How do you reveal what a person is thinking? I've thought about this a lot, recently, and a small stage in the basement is a perfect venue for attempting the impossible. Linda does Emily with great deliberation, incredibly considered nuance. As it should be. TR said, today, and I agree, that she is the lead; what his music needs to do, is float her to the top, so that the spoken word becomes a transport. Opera is strange. A play with music requires considerable attention. Her hands, for instance, need to be perfect. I picture them as a lava flow. She steps back and allows the molten rock to form meaning. I have another whole day off, I can think about things, right? Not leap too lightly into the void. In my defense, I rarely do. For several hours I look at hands in paintings. I'm compulsive, I guess, when it comes to detail. Once I think about it, it becomes very important. Suddenly all I can see is hands. A language I've never understood.