With A Stick
Not a word written or posted over the weekend, for some reason. I got things done around the apartment though, got all the books up on the bookshelves in alphabetical order by author - took a lot longer than I thought it would - so now I can find something if I decide to look, found the necessary cables to get the cd player running, played some records, did another stir fry. The weather was mixed, but we had sun and I was able to go into San Francisco on Saturday if only to get out of the apartment, get some exercise and shoot pictures. A little muddled, I thought, the brain, tagging along through all of this as it must, but a good weekend none the less.
Wednesday I'm having the prostate biopsy done, so I'm planning on taking the afternoon off. I hope we have luck this time. If I've got it I want it found so I can get on with the treatment while I'm still working. I'll have insurance, job or not, but better to get it over and get along. If they suddenly decide I'm redundant after they learn I'm damaged goods, well then, so be it. Keep looking for another job, my son, and for another chapter in this life while there's still life to write chapters around. Not a thought I'd have had even a few years back.
Tuesday evening. Everyone brought cookies and fudge and cookies and nuts and cookies and candy into the office today and placed them strategically on every flat surface in the building. Hard to pass them in the halls. Hard to pass them in the offices. Hard to pass them at all. Colorful good tasting little doses of caloric comfort, "come with me into the lab and kiss my tongue you little sugar bindle". Christmas is approaching and the temptations are many. I was thinking I'd like to reach a certain weight by my birthday in March, no particular significance to the number, other than I'd be down to where I could wear all the old clothes. None of which I would actually wear, you understand, this being an opportunity to go shopping, but down to the weight at which I'd last roamed this world in my thirties and forties. A birthday present, you understand.
Hence the cookie soliloquy. I was good. Pretty good. I did get into the lab for a kiss, though. Just one. A taste. A little smooch. To remember what it was like, long ago.
Congratulations to Sticky Fingers, who's play Bag 'O Marbles has won the 2002 New York New Dramatists Exchange and is travelling soon to New York City. (No, I don't know what it is either, but it's gotta be hot if they fly you half way around the world.) She commented once that she was in danger of being pigeon holed as a "rural" playwright and I thought at the time, "rural"? You mean like Tennessee Williams? Or is "rural" not quite the same thing as "Southern"? Congratulations, Ms. Fingers, congratulations from all of us. And America? Will we take a "rural" playwright to our heart? Kid, you'll have to beat us off with a stick.
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