Clown of God has been over for a few days now, and total strangers are still complimenting me about it. Classes are also over, which means I won’t have another course with Marie. She grows in beauty and we grow in our special friendship.
I have a little Christmas tree up, so I’m doing my best to get in the spirit of Christmas.
Two of my scripts made it through the next stage of judging; one more stage to go. I also was cast in two theater productions in the spring: Davis in In the Flesh and Luke in Pilate. They both open in March.
Vince had to go home to get a root canal. His car broke down, so he had to take a bus home. He and Marie and I saw LaRue and Russ Taff in concert.
And, well, it seems as though life can’t be captured in these pages anymore. I feel my journaling must change shape because I feel I don’t know its purpose, its style, or its reason.
Perhaps I feel that my emotions are stable and I no longer need to vomit them out onto a page in order to sort through my sense of self. Or perhaps I just no longer have the time. Or perhaps I feel whoever eventually reads this will not care. I wonder if I write so much of how I am out in screenplays that I no longer have anything left to say in these pages. Maybe I just want to give all of me to Marie and not to these Books of Days.
Whatever the reason, I will continue to write. Even if it all turns into abstraction, I will write. For I must not second guess that the me I give to these pages is a gift to myself. Whatever fleeting thought I jot down is all these pages are ever supposed to know.
