(no subject)
I have not deliberately been avoiding this journal. Rather that, I have been extremely busy preparing my play for its New York run. The Minetta Lane Theater in Greenwich Village is going to feature "My Name is Rachel Corrie" this October. Previews are to begin on Oct. 5, with an opening scheduled for Oct. 15th. The play is to run for 48 performances, closing on Nov. 19th.
I have a need to write, to fill the empty white boxes that comprise this journal, yet I know not of what to write. I feel an inexplicable urge to share my thoughts, my dreams and my desires, and yet, at the same time, I am reluctant to open my heart, mind and soul to the curious. I have grown distant from those that I have known before and am reluctant to allow myself the pleasure of knowing those persons who have gathered out the outskirts of my premises. I find myself locked behind walls of my own making, unsure as to if I truly wish to emerge and unsure as to how to go about doing such a feat.
I have a tumbler of alcohol beside me each night. Sometimes I have brandy, sometimes scotch, more than likely the glass is half-full (or it is half-empty?) of Irish whiskey. I peruse through the books that line the shelves of my library, each one beckoning in its own way for me to open the cover, turn the page and delve into the adventures yet undiscovered. Or perhaps to rediscover the journey already taken.
I was at the market the other day and overheard a young mother pointing me out to her child. I was rather amused when the child refused to believe that I was the evil and cold-hearted Professor Snape, due to the fact that my natural hair color is blond (although it is quite liberally peppered with grey). The mother insisted that I was as who she said, then politely (and rather timidly, if I may say) asked if I would scowl at her child. After a moments hesitation, I stood up straight, schooled my face into the best scowl and spoke. "YOUNG MAN, I will have you know that if you do not eat your meat as your mother requests, there will be no pudding for dessert. How can you possibly have your pudding if you do not eat your meat?" The child screamed and hid behind his mother.
I have a need to write, to fill the empty white boxes that comprise this journal, yet I know not of what to write. I feel an inexplicable urge to share my thoughts, my dreams and my desires, and yet, at the same time, I am reluctant to open my heart, mind and soul to the curious. I have grown distant from those that I have known before and am reluctant to allow myself the pleasure of knowing those persons who have gathered out the outskirts of my premises. I find myself locked behind walls of my own making, unsure as to if I truly wish to emerge and unsure as to how to go about doing such a feat.
I have a tumbler of alcohol beside me each night. Sometimes I have brandy, sometimes scotch, more than likely the glass is half-full (or it is half-empty?) of Irish whiskey. I peruse through the books that line the shelves of my library, each one beckoning in its own way for me to open the cover, turn the page and delve into the adventures yet undiscovered. Or perhaps to rediscover the journey already taken.
I was at the market the other day and overheard a young mother pointing me out to her child. I was rather amused when the child refused to believe that I was the evil and cold-hearted Professor Snape, due to the fact that my natural hair color is blond (although it is quite liberally peppered with grey). The mother insisted that I was as who she said, then politely (and rather timidly, if I may say) asked if I would scowl at her child. After a moments hesitation, I stood up straight, schooled my face into the best scowl and spoke. "YOUNG MAN, I will have you know that if you do not eat your meat as your mother requests, there will be no pudding for dessert. How can you possibly have your pudding if you do not eat your meat?" The child screamed and hid behind his mother.